


Call It What You Will; It's Not That

by BirdWhistle



Category: What We Do in the Shadows (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Feels, F/M, Love Triangles, Office AU, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:33:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26186467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BirdWhistle/pseuds/BirdWhistle
Summary: Two people are brought together by the need to be touched. And they're both fucking idiots.
Relationships: Viago/Original Female Character
Comments: 31
Kudos: 18





	1. Built by what we got built for

**Author's Note:**

> Hear me out. 
> 
> This is some weird Shrödinger's AU in which the male character is both Viago and a Taika Waititi character? but he's also neither one nor the other entirely. He's... let's call it a blend of Viago and Taika Waititi in a commercial he did for Samsung ages ago. LOL I dunno.

He’s just… ridiculous. Lame, as the kids say. Do kids still say that? He has too much bravado, too much _unearned_ bravado, though she’s not quite sure how one earns bravado. He flirts with every woman that crosses his path, but it is surprisingly toothless, so the women in the office don’t mind it. Clara would bet they find it amusing. And that’s the thing: he’s awfully flirty, almost unprofessionally so, yet it never feels threatening. She has never heard anyone refer to him as a creep. A loser, sure, once or twice. A sad bachelor, yes, several times. But why? He’s not one of the top-billing designers, but he’s successful enough.

He’s also —and she’ll fight anyone who disagrees— very easy on the eye. Yes, he’s got a, uh, regrettable fashion sense. She’s seen worse, but those bland suits and pathetic little turtle necks are guaranteed eyesores. But she actually finds that dreadful style kind of… endearing. Okay, endearing might be overselling it. But she doesn’t mind it. Not when he has those wonderful curls —that he combs to the side, because of course he does— or those big, beautiful, brown eyes. Eyes that crinkle when he smiles. And that smile of his is actually quite charming. He’s tall and slender, so what the fuck? He thinks he’s smooth —he’s not— but the world isn’t short of clueless women. Or women who like losers. Or women who haven’t gotten laid in ages and are horny as hell and can’t stop eyeing their ridiculous boss and thinking about fucking him right on that stupid chair of his. That third category is a bitch.

  


When Viago interviewed her, there was no flirting. He was very professional, very respectful. He smiled a couple of times, a bashful smile that Clara found reassuring. There was no sexual interest, at least not on her part. Fucking one’s boss is, well, trashy. It happened a lot in her novels, but she can’t claim it comes from personal experience. Mainly because her bosses have always been old men, middle-aged married men (which didn’t stop them from trying to bed her, anyway), married women or single women who weren’t interested in other women, at least not sexually. What a shame.

Clara’d had one superior, Dr. Clement, who had beautiful red hair and a fantastic rack. She definitely would have fucked Dr. Clement. She did fuck a nurse. Well, dated. Sort of. Lena was voluptuous and gorgeous and every weary adjective ending in -ous. What started as a one-time fuck became a semi-stable relationship, though very short-lived. Most of her relationships have been short-lived. Lena, the vixen. Andrew, the cheater. David, the emotionally abusive asshole. Manuel, the cheater. Men cheated on her or used her to cheat on their partners. And women just left her.

Clara is very aware of her shortcomings and hang-ups, but she never actively tried to hurt people. There was collateral damage, there always is. Things, however, always ended up blowing up in her face, not whoever’s she was fucking/dating/whatever-ing at the moment. So she became suspicious. Apprehensive. Romantically high-strung. A good ol’ mess. She occasionally indulges in one-night stands, but very rarely. She’s able to get herself off in less than three minutes, so she seldom bothers to outsource. She has Grace, a loving friend whom she trusts completely. And she has two parents whose death has given her incommensurable relief —and said relief was come with a dastardly dose of guilt— and freedom. She’s free to do what she wants. How many people on this godforsaken Earth have the luxury of saying that?

  


She was surprised when she got the call. Nothing but surprising calls lately. Viago called her himself to ask her when she was free to start. That’s how he phrased it: _When are you free to start?_ The very next day, of course. Selina, his former assistant, had found a better job in a different company. Selina is tall and has creamy skin and dark hair. Clara throws a couple of flirty smiles her way, but Selina is totally oblivious. Damn it.

“He’s a good boss. Kind of eccentric, though.” Clara chuckles. That could mean so many things.

“What do you mean?”

“He sometimes asked me to play the organ with him.”

Clara wonders if that’s a euphemism. Selina smiles. “It’s not slang for sex or anything. Actual music. He’s not bad at it, actually.” Clara plays the guitar, but the idea of doing it at work is a little puzzling.

“Did you mind it? I mean, a weird thing to ask, no?”

Selina laughs this time. “I play the organ at church, so not really. He’s… he might seem bombastic or weird, but he’s kind-hearted.” Kind-hearted. Clara likes that description.

“You’ll get used to it. To him. Once you get the knack of it, you’ll be able to work on autopilot.” Hell yes. That sounds perfect. A job that allows her to be needed but not essential. She’s hard-working, but she doesn’t need work-related stress. She’s had enough of that for a lifetime. This job is just to keep herself busy. Selina shakes her hand and wishes her good luck. For the first time in many months, Clara feels content.

  


The first few weeks are somewhat difficult. It’s not that she’s not used to someone constantly looking over her shoulder to see if she’s doing it right. It isn’t, either, the constant dread of fucking up —though here the consequences are much less fatal. It’s that she finds it rather dull. Other than having to learn to use software she hadn’t even heard of before, and to adjust to normal eating hours, the job is easy. Too easy. But she’ll spill nasty black coffee all over her favorite blouse (she wears blouses now!) before admitting she misses the kick of working in the hospital.

It does get better. As more days go by, and then more weeks, and then a month or two, she settles into the job. Selina was right: she could do it in her sleep, just like writing those god-awful books. She even makes acquaintances: the assistants like to have lunch together, and they’re certainly a welcoming bunch. Clara is not, by any stretch of the imagination, a good cook, but she manages. She’s trying to learn, not so much for her sake, but for her lunch buddies’. They like to share, so Clara has had to learn a thing or two. But other times she just asks Grace or Brendan to make some more of what they make for dinner, in exchange for more playdates with Jane, an unjust trade-off in Clara’s opinion, since Jane is much more fun than she was at her age.

And, just like in the hospital, gossip abounds. Who is fucking whom is a matter of the utmost importance. Clara learned Viago is “positively obsessed” with Natalia’s boss. Natalia is awfully young and awfully bubbly and Clara likes her precisely for those reasons. Her boss, on the other hand, while not old, is stern and famously —or infamously— unyielding. And why should she yield? She’s got innate business acumen and zero tolerance for men who always have the need to minimize women. Ramona is her name, and while Clara had seen Viago fumble and stutter whenever Ramona came into his office, she’d thought it was because he found her intimidating.

“He sure would like her to intimidate him right out of his trousers”, James had joked. They all laughed, Clara included. She had no idea! Something she had noticed was that Viago never flirted with people below him in the corporate hierarchy, so no one at the table had been the target of his often cringeworthy lines. But they sometimes witnessed them, and they were always a reliable source of entertainment.

She remembers Selina’s words: “bombastic and weird.” Yes, Viago made it easy to assign those adjectives to him, but the other one was true as well: Viago is definitely kind-hearted. Clara suspects he’s very much aware he’s the butt of jokes at the office, but he seems to take in stride and shrug it off.

He was nothing but patient with her in those first weeks, and he’s never rude or condescending, and that was new for her. It was only after her third week that he kindly asked if it would be too much trouble for her to take a slight detour so she could pick up his coffee. He’d made it clear that it if _it was_ too much trouble, he’d keep doing it himself. Clara gave it a go and ended up discovering a nice little café with all sorts of pastries and desserts and beverages. She kept doing it, and trying all those sweets and all those milky coffees became a ritual of sorts.

Once she got the hang of things, Viago left her to her own devices. She started to learn his patterns and habits; he was often more cheerful in the afternoon than in the morning, so she scheduled his meetings after lunch. He liked reading while his coffee was still hot, so she always made sure the docs that needed reviewing were the first thing he saw on his desk in the morning. And after she found out he had a thing for Ramona, she asked Natalia to let her know when her boss was heading for Viago’s office so she could do two things: let him know she was coming (his eyes always widened almost comically when she announced Ramona’s visit) and to catch a glimpse of their interactions, at least the beginning, because they always differed from one another.

When Ramona walks in, Viago stands up and then sits back down. Ramona never sits. Instead, she paces around the office, or she stands behind a chair, her hands on the backrest, leaning slightly forward. The times she has found Clara in the office, she nods and says her name. Then she says Viago’s name, and then she bombards him with statements and questions and half-statements, half-questions. Viago tries to take cover, using the big computer monitor as a shield. But he never breaks eye contact; he follows Ramona’s movements, and Clara has seen his gaze stray downward once or twice, but he always focuses his eyes on her profile.

Clara wonders what goes through his mind. Is he in love or does he just want to fuck her? The way he looks at her suggests the former, but men are not to be trusted in these matters. Other times, Ramona enters the office, greets them, asks Viago a question and just waits for an answer. Other times she comes in with a proposal. Not for his approval, just for his insight. Once she made a joke. Viago and Clara looked at each other as if they’d just seen Ramona grow another head. They laughed, not because the joke was funny, but because it was such a rare occurrence that they didn’t know what else to do. After Ramona left, Viago stared at the door for far too long. Maybe it’s not love, but it’s more than lust. He _likes_ her.

Clara wondered if he had friends. She has never seen him fraternizing with his colleagues, but she has no idea what any of these people do after they clock out. Clara wonders if he’s lonely. Clara wonders if _she’s_ lonely.

  


The first time she has _the thought_ she’s sitting at her desk, finishing next week’s schedule. Viago walks out of his office, keys in hand. He has a business dinner, and he really likes business dinners. He says very few things beat drinking fine wine on company dime.

“I’ll take you to one, if you want. These fancy restaurants have great desserts.” Clara chuckles. Viago has seen her stuffing all kinds of sweets in her mouth, and whenever he catches her, he asks the same question: “How come you’re not diabetic?”

“Maybe I am, I haven’t gotten tested yet”, she replies with a mouth full of sugar.

Viago snorts and shrugs. “There are worse ways to die, I guess.”

Clara reminds him of the report that he hasn’t finished. He nods, absentminded. His suit is a brownish number that does him no favors. But Clara gets this flash of Viago licking frosting off her fingers while he fucks her against a wall. _What the fucking fuck?!_ It is sudden in its appearance and its vanishing. Luckily for her, Viago’s already walking away.

She stares at the computer screen. The picture had been as vivid as it had been quick. Clara will not deny finding him attractive from the very first time, despite his penchant for ill-fitting suits and a schoolboy’s hairstyle. But Viago is… Viago. Her boss. They know very little about each other, and that’s perfectly reasonable for their relationship. She shakes her head and sets to finish her task. She lazily masturbates that night, nothing in particular on her mind. But just as she comes, her mind conjures a head of luscious dark curls right between her shaking thighs.

It happens again, of course. And again. And soon enough, it’s all she can think about. She only manages to remember the last time she had sex after several seconds of embarrassing blankness. Sex was, for a while, a welcome distraction from a job she loathed. Be it casual or with strings attached, she’d always seen it as a mean to an end. She’s never equated sex with intimacy; she’s allowed herself to be seen, to be known, while still clothed and not in challenging positions.

It turned out horribly, that stint. That closeness, that different type of nakedness. It was dismissed. It was used against her. So she stuck to fucking. And then she just quit it altogether. Only seen by Grace, only understood by her. Her parents knew nothing about her, and they never asked. A life-long friendship with Grace has been the only barrier between Clara and total oblivion. But Grace has a family now, a husband and a child. Grace’s heart is big enough for all of them. But Clara can no longer be a disruptive force in her life, she can no longer barge into Grace’s place at ungodly hours with a bottle of rum in her hand.

Sometimes she has to include Brendan and Jane when she makes plans with Grace. It was bothersome, at first. But then she saw that she had gained a new friend. Brendan managed to be understanding and supportive of Clara, too. And Jane was a tiny hurricane, a force none of them could contain. But they had never really tried. Precocious children were a nuisance, at least that’s what Clara thought. Jane showed her otherwise. And Clara wonders again if she’s just lonely. As much as she loves Jane, she doesn’t want children of her own. As much as she admires Grace and Brendan’s relationship, she deems it unobtainable for herself.

  


Clara remembers Natalia’s words: _positively obsessed_. That might not accurately describe her current situation, but it’s not that far off, either. She can’t stop these images, she can’t. Granted, she doesn’t try really hard, but still. It’s very inappropriate, and Clara has not once been inappropriate in her entire life. Why Viago? There are plenty of men in the office. She knows it’s a silly question. Yes, there are plenty of other men, but she rarely interacts with them. A lot of them are married, and those who aren’t interest her very little. They’re much younger than her, or much older, or sketchy, or perverts, or assholes.

She knows she may be rationalizing her unexpected inclinations. She is aware of the dead end ahead of her. But that doesn’t stop her from thinking about it more often than she’d care to admit. Viago fucking her on his desk. Viago’s breath hot on her ear as he fucks her from behind. Viago on his knees, eating her out. It’s thrilling but also nerve-wracking and exhausting. She masturbates almost every night. Her body seems to ache for his touch.

She convinces Grace to go to a bar with her so she can pick some random man up and scratch that fucking itch. It doesn’t work.

“You’re obsessed!” Grace shouts.

“I know that!”

“It’s going to sound super corny, but I think you want to fuck him because you can’t fuck him. He’s off limits, and that just entices you more.”

Perhaps. Yeah, Clara’s given that idea some thought. Yes. Off limits. Hmmm. She likes that job, but she can always get another one. She doesn’t even need a job, she could join an NGO.

“No. Clara, don’t. Clara.” Grace’s voice is all frown, but her face is pure resignation. She knows very well what Clara is going to do. That poor Viago fellow won’t know what hit him.

  


He’s wearing his glasses. He takes them off, rubs the bridge of his nose, then puts them back on. They’re almost done; doc review is tedious, and a definite mood killer. But Clara won’t be deterred. She takes a deep breath and dives in.

“Are you married, Viago?” He gives her the same shocked face he makes when she tells him Ramona is coming.

“Uh, no, I’m not. Wh- why are you asking?”

“I thought… maybe you were.” She loses her nerve. Fuck, this is going to be harder than she thought.

Viago smiles. “I’m sure you’ve heard one of my monikers. The Sad Bachelor.”

Clara frowns. The mocking is not as covert as everyone seems to think. Her heart sinks a little. Does Ramona know he likes her? Does she enjoy coming to his office just to rustle his feathers? She clears her throat. In for a penny, in for a pound.

“Yes, I’m aware of it. Don’t see the logic behind it. I thought men loved being bachelors. Isn’t it a bit of a contradiction?”

It’s his turn to frown. He takes off his glasses and puts them on the desk, and then he offers her a really sad smile. “Maybe the joke is that bachelors are successful with women.”

 _Fuuuuuuuck_. He’s more self-aware than she would have believed. But she’s already knee-deep in this mess.

“How do they gauge this success? Number of sexual partners?” She can’t help but scoff. “I’d say the fewer women you’ve failed to give an orgasm, the better.”

Viago tilts his head and frowns. Clara laughs. What else can she do? Jumping out the window is the only other option. “That didn’t come out right. I mean men, bachelors or otherwise, are not particularly good at sex. I’d bet my entire salary that those who brag on fucking a lot of women have made less than half of them come. And I’m being generous.”

She looks him in the eye. “I asked because I was wondering if you wanted to have sex with me.”

Viago is dumbfounded. She wishes she could take his picture. She gives him time to mull over her words. When he finally speaks, he says what she was expecting him to say.

“Clara, you’re my assistant.”

She smiles. “Yes, Viago, I know.” She shrugs. “I know this is unprofessional. That I’m crossing a line. You’re more than welcome to fire me. I… I don’t really need this job. I like it, I really do. And you have been a great boss. It’s just that… I haven’t had sex in a long time, and I think you’re really attractive, and fuck those nicknames, there are people who never truly leave high school behind.”

Viago’s face is fascinating. His brow is slightly furrowed, his cheeks are all red and he’s _pouting_. Clara has to stop herself from leaning across the desk and kiss that pout right off his face.

“You want to… have sex with me.” It sounds like one of Ramona’s enigmatic half-statements, half-questions.

“I do. I trust you’ll keep it between us, if you say yes, of course.”

Viago shakes his head. “But you’re… Clara, you may be my assistant, but I’m not blind. You’re a very attractive woman. Whereas I… I’m…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, but Clara knows what he wanted to say. _I’m a loser_. He’s wearing a light blue turtle neck that is absolutely hideous but she wants to feel it against her skin all the same.

“It’s just sex, Viago. I think we both need it.”

He looks at her. “Does it mean I’ll have to fire you? Because you’re a great assistant.”

Clara lets out a laugh. “I think we’re mature enough to handle an encounter of this nature and not let it affect our professional relationship. But if you see it fit to terminate me, then by all means. Just let me fuck you.”

Viago’s breath catches as he closes his eyes. Clara wants to sit on his lap so she can persuade him, but that would be kind of cheap. Manipulative, even. So she just waits.

Viago nods, then opens his eyes. He nods again. Clara sits still for a few moments before rising and locking the door. Good thing this company hasn’t followed the glass walls and doors trend that’s all the rage nowadays. They have enough privacy, and everyone has gone home already.

“What you said… about men not being good at sex. If that’s what you think, why are you asking me?”

Clara offers him a shy smile. “I can show you what I like. How I like it.”

Viago has stood from his chair and Clara stands in front of him. It’s strange, being so close to him. She notices his eyes are a lovely hazel shade, and his chest rises and falls to the rhythm of his quick breaths. Clara runs her fingers along his jaw, and she tangles them in his thick curls. They’re soft, softer than she’d expected. Viago angles his head to his right and kisses her. It’s feather-light and lightning-quick, a tentative peck. Clara is much more forward: she licks his lower lip before pressing her mouth to his. Viago lets out a faint moan that gives Clara goosebumps. Their kiss grows less hesitant, more aggressive, and Clara could melt right in it.

She hasn’t kissed, hasn’t grabbed, hasn’t sighed into someone’s mouth in what feels like a century. And Viago’s mouth is hot and wet and his spit tastes like citric (somewhere in the back of her mind, Clara remembers his fondness for tangerines). Their mouths part. They are both panting as if they’d been running. Clara hops on his desk, drawing him into the V of her open legs. When she got dressed that morning, she chose a simple dress, navy blue, that buttons down the front. She takes his hand and guides it under the hem of her dress. Viago’s fingers caress the skin of her thigh, his touch light, bashful.

“Show me, please.” Clara shivers when she hears his whispered plea. With one hand, she pushes her underwear to the side; with the other, she takes Viago’s middle finger and presses it to the hood of her clit. He starts a clockwise motion that has her eyes fluttering closed.

“Like that?” He asks softly. Clara nods, not bothering to open her eyes. She feels his warm breath on her face, right on her mouth. He must be watching her intently, gauging her reactions.

“Wait”, she whispers and opens her eyes. Viago stops. She takes his hand yet again and sucks on his middle finger. Viago’s brow furrows and then he lets out an almost inaudible grunt.

“I could have done that. But you look so good doing it.”

Clara smiles and bites lightly on his finger. He snakes his hand between her legs and resumes his touches. The glide of his wet finger makes her grab his neck with both hands. “A little bit faster”, she breathes. She can’t decide whether to keep her eyes open or closed; Viago’s face is twisted in a fascinating expression and she wants to fix her gaze on it, but at the same time, his ministrations make her want to shut out all other senses to focus only on his touch.

“Fuck, that’s good.”

He nods and kisses the corner of her mouth. She turns her head and opens her mouth, and Viago seeks her tongue with his own and it’s so soft and wet and fruity. She moans and tugs at his lower lip with her teeth, and now it’s Viago’s turn to moan. Clara reluctantly breaks away. “I want you to put your middle finger inside me and touch my clit with your thumb. Okay?” Viago gives her an enthusiastic nod. “When it’s inside, do this” she shows him with her own finger, wiggling it in a suggestive “come here” motion. She can’t help but moan more loudly than before when Viago slips his finger inside of her. He does exactly as he’s told, and the friction of his thumb on her clit and his finger on that incredibly sensitive spot inside makes her shiver.

Clara’s hips start moving ever so gently, following the rhythm of his fingers. She sinks her hand in his hair and kisses him hard. “I’m so close. Please don’t stop, please don’t stop, please…” She knows Viago is shaking his head because she feels the movement. Her eyes are tightly shut; a few more moments and she’ll cave to that mind-numbing bliss. She both races and stumbles toward it, and Viago is right there with her with encouraging whispers she can barely make out. “Fuck, Viago.”

She shakes against him and embraces him and digs her fingernails into the flesh of his shoulders. Her orgasm ripples through her and makes her body as taut as a bowstring, and then she just gives in to the pleasure and her body collapses against his. She’s panting again, enjoying the last tremors of her thighs. When she opens her eyes, Viago gives her a soft kiss on the cheek. Then, like before, on the corner of her mouth. And at last on her lips.

“I think I’m gonna come after two seconds after watching you and feeling you like that.”

Clara giggles, and she feels a delicious fluttering right down her sternum. She takes a deep breath and reaches for his belt. She can see his hard cock straining against his trousers, and she thinks that his suits aren’t as ill-fitting as she remembered. She traces the outline with her index finger, and Viago hisses in her ear. She pushes his pants and his underwear past his hips, but they remain around his thighs. She has always liked the brown of his skin, and the skin she’s revealing with her partial undressing —a sliver of waist, a hipbone, a sturdy upper thigh— makes her want to dip her head and lick him, mark him with her spit. And then there’s his cock. Ramona is certainly missing out. It’s big and thick and heavy in her hand. She gives it a few strokes, her thumb brushing the small slit on the head, wet already.

“Keep doing that and I’ll come all over your hand like a teenager” he mutters against her cheek. Clara laughs softly. She hates it when men are quiet and almost solemn during sex. She knows, she just knows that Viago is going to make the most delicious sounds.

“Shit, my bag’s all the way over there. Can you…” Viago reaches out and grabs it. “No condoms in the drawers?”, she jokes.

Viago snorts. “I’m not that optimistic.”

She finds the condom and hands it to him. He rolls it down his cock and then grabs one of her legs and curls it around his waist. Clara’s hands are perched on his shoulders, her thumbs drawing small circles on his neck. Viago’s breath catches as he slides inside of her. He closes his eyes and rests his forehead on hers. “Fuck.” It’s more of an outline of a word; a silhouette of a sigh. Clara feels it more than hears it: a puff of breath on her face, sweet and almost reverential.

She licks her lips and tangles her fingers in his hair. Viago retreats and then slides back in, slightly harder this time. By the third thrust he’s found a rhythm that has their hips swaying back and forth, their bodies joined from chest to belly and further down. He moans, and it’s almost feminine in its cadence and ardor. Clara wraps her other leg ‘round his hips, urging him closer, as if they weren’t deliciously close already. His cock fills her very, _very_ nicely. His forehead is still on hers, and Clara’s tongue darts out of her mouth and licks his lower lip across the narrow distance between their faces.

Viago opens his eyes. They’re dark and tinted with a hunger that both startles and excites her. “Your cunt is perfect. Fucking —fucking perfect.” Clara grins and starts touching herself. Viago looks down, but her dress conceals everything even from their eyes. But he sees her hand between her legs, he feels it between their bodies, and he moans again, and a third time, and God, she fucking knew it, she knew he wouldn’t keep quiet, and his shameless moaning spurs her on, making her touch herself with swift urgency, making her stick her fingers in Viago’s mouth so he can lick them, and he licks them and sucks on them, eyes fixed on hers.

She withdraws her hand and resumes touching her aching clit, and he’s pounding into her now, and Clara knows he’s going to come soon, very soon, at any moment now, _fuck_ , a few more strokes, his cock slides in and out, in and out, and she loves his cock already, she loves how it makes her ache inside, _fuck_ , this wasn’t a bad idea at all, _fuck_ , so fucking close, her left hand grabs at his sweater and she leans forward and fucking sniffs him, like a dog, and he smells like detergent and sweat and coffee and tangerines and just when she thinks she’s going to come with a mouthful of blue fabric, Viago dips his head and kisses her hard, a savage grunt tearing itself right out of his throat and into her mouth, and Clara moans loudly, completely forgetting they’re in his office and that if someone is still there, they’ll definitely hear her.

She crashes like a plane in a solitary forest, she’s on fire and crashing and convulsing, her legs wound tightly around his waist, her fingers tugging at his hair. She gasps for air, and Viago is still moving his hips, his rhythm fast and sloppy, his throat vibrating with moans and grunts.

“I’m gonna —fucking— come now—“ he lowers his head to her shoulder and shudders against her. Clara runs her fingertips down his back, feeling the strain of his muscles as he comes. His hold is unyielding; his fingers are digging almost painfully into the soft flesh of her hips. His breath is hot on her skin, and he’s still holding her tightly.

Clara is… pleasantly surprised. Her expectations were not super low, but if sex with men has taught her something, is to get herself off first and then just hope for the best. Viago showed patience and constraint; he seemed genuinely invested in her pleasure, touching her with unhurried resolve. He kisses her softly on the lips before he disentangles from her. He seems to hesitate on where to dispose the condom; the cleaning staff might find it in the trash bin and, should they disclose what they found, the entire office would have a field day. Clara was prepared for this. She takes a small plastic bag out of her handbag and gestures him to throw the condom in. Plenty of trash cans on their way out.

She watches him fidget with his watch, unsure of what to do, what to say.

“Thank you.” Her voice is low, almost timid.

Viago looks at her and frowns. “What for?”

“For indulging me. I know this is unorthodox, but…” she’s not quite sure she knows how to finish that sentence. She shakes her head and smiles. “It was great.”

Viago smiles too, the same kind of smile he gave her during her interview. “It was. You’re…”

Clara’s glad she’s not the only one struggling with her words. There’s something hanging in the air, sneakily floating across the room, around them, between them. Neither wants to grab it and unfold it.

“I’ll see you tomorrow”, she says.

Viago nods. “Have a good night.”


	2. There lies my passion hidden

He knows there’s a betting pool, but he isn’t certain of the details. Is it on him asking Ramona out? Is it on Ramona accepting or declining? He knows she’s not part of it, she’s too professional to engage in such tomfoolery. As for Clara… he can only guess.

If he were to base that answer on what recently transpired between them, he’d be even less confident. Yes, he could say. She seems to get along with everyone in the office, though her earnest interactions seem to be restricted to other assistants. He’s never seen her make small talk with executives. He could also say no: while she has easily integrated into the office, Viago has also observed a certain degree of… aloofness. She accepts these interactions as part of her job, but, from what he can attest, she never initiates them. Had the other assistants refrained from inviting her to their lunch club, she would simply eat lunch by herself —or with other parties outside the office.

When one of his colleagues tries some basic-level schmoozing, her replies become awfully sparse. Viago has heard one or two comments about it, generally along the lines of “Selina was chattier” or “She’s got a stick up her ass, that one.” Only the first one is factual. Selina was quite friendly; Viago attributes that to her work in the local church. As for Clara being “stuck-up”… There is a distance that she doesn’t want anyone to bridge. Not anyone here, at least. She strikes him as someone who draws a very clear line between work and personal life. Which makes what happened the more baffling.

Viago doesn’t regret it. He may not have taken the necessary time to carefully assess the situation and its implications; he listened not only to his gut, but to his libido. He hasn’t —hadn’t— had sex in almost two years. Since Katherine left. And to have an attractive woman state, very directly, that she wanted to have sex with him…

Deep down, he acknowledges that saying no was an obligation. He’s the one in a position of power, even if it was Clara who propositioned him. But he can’t find it in himself to bemoan his choice. Not after what he saw, what he felt. Clara unraveling because of his touch. Clara opening her legs and drawing him close. Clara writhing against him, her moans echoing across his office. When she put her fingers in his mouth, allowing him to taste her, however briefly, he had to will himself not to come, not so quickly. And the wet heat of her cunt… he could have stayed in that office forever, hips firmly placed between her creamy thighs, a perpetual back and forth motion driving his cock into her, his mouth seeking her pink tongue, her sweetened spit. Kissing her was like eating one of those pastries she’s always munching on.

He had forgotten what it was like. He had forgotten what tasting someone’s mouth was like. What feeling the warmth of their skin was like. What hearing their gasps, their moans, their pleading was like. Clara had reminded him, and it was all so vivid, so wonderfully overwhelming. He was so… ecstatic. To be touched after so long without contact. To be kissed eagerly, wantonly. To hear his name as the coda of a breathless curse. He had wanted to do it again. He had been dangerously close to asking Clara to come to his place with him. To let him undress her. To let him settle between her open legs and make her scream his name as he eats her out. To crawl up her body and hear her gasp as soon as he enters her.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. He fucked his assistant. A crass cliché, to be honest. Not his finest moment, decision-making wise. But it was great. It truly was. _You’re so warm and soft and you smell so good._ That’s what he had wanted to say to her. But, even after their encounter, it would have seemed unprofessional. Best to be curt. And he’s certain of Clara’s nonchalant approach the next day. He’s sure she’ll greet him like she always does. _G’morning! Fancy an eclair?_ He isn’t sure of his reaction. Zero certainties about that.

  


Ramona’s pacing is strangely calming. She’s almost as tall as he is, and he likes her ponytail. Clara’s sitting across from him, trying to jot down Ramona’s ideas. Clara’s wearing a pencil skirt that would probably rip if she tried to spread her legs wide enough for him to —he shakes his head. He focuses his gaze on Ramona’s ponytail.

He’s had a crush on her since they met. He likes how driven she is, how unwilling to tolerate bullshit. He likes the way she speaks: with authority, daring others to question her. They rarely do; she’s always right. When she barges into his office, all he can do is listen. And watch her. He’s fond of her pacing, of her elusive stare. She only looks at him when she expects a reply. And when she looks at him, he does his best to hold her gaze. She can be very intimidating, yes. But he cannot look away. Her eyes are brown; darker than his own, and smaller, too. Women have told him, once or twice, that they like his big eyes. Would Ramona say the same? Would Clara?

Clara offered him a cream-filled croissant this morning. For the first time since she started frequenting the café and stuffing pastries in the top drawer of her desk, he accepted. It was _heavenly._

“Amazing, isn’t it?” She’d said, mouth full, stray crumbs and cream on her upper lip. How he’d wanted to lean forward and lick her clean. To make her blouse greasy as he caresses her breasts. To step between her legs and… He finished the croissant in his office, and he felt like a child eating a stolen treat. The door was open, and he could hear Clara’s typing. She had greeted him as warmly as usual. No cheeky smiles or looks. And now she’s here, in his office, with Ramona.

He notices Ramona’s also wearing a pencil skirt. Viago follows the line of her leg, from hip to heel. He gets a flash of a pair of legs wrapped around his waist. He blinks. Not at work, for fuck’s sake. Luckily, she has no questions today; she was all orders and instructions. Good. He needs to focus on something.

“Make sure to show him those notes, he seems… distracted.”

He sees Ramona’s ponytail swaying as she leaves. Clara remains by the door.

“Everything okay?” She holds her tablet against her chest. She looks so… proper. No trace of what he had witnessed the night before. Why is he so fixated on it? He’s not sure he wants to do it again. Well, he’s sure he would say yes if Clara asked again. Or no. _Fuck_.

He has indulged in casual sex a few times before, but it’s not something he actively seeks. His relentless flirting is not aimed at bedding women nonstop. It has had that purpose a few times, yes. And it has worked, despite what his colleagues might think; he’s not as charmless as they seem to perceive him. It’s a facade, really. A way to conceal himself. He’s not that different from Clara: there is a line he doesn’t want crossed. Except by Ramona, perhaps. He wants her, he wants her badly. And now, he wants Clara as well.

“Yes, everything’s okay.” Clara nods and walks out. He tries not to stare at the curve of her ass. He fails.

  


Clara has a way of packing her things that’s almost hypnotic. She does it swiftly, and he zeroes in on her wrist, its motion almost undulating, as if she were underwater. They stayed later than usual; she helped him prepare the visuals for his presentation the next day. He’s tired and tense. Clara takes out her car keys and zips her backpack closed.

“Do you want to have sex?” He’ll spend several nights debating himself on whether he tried hard enough to keep his mouth shut. “Please forgive me, Clara. I just… I’m sorry.” He closes his eyes and tilts his head to the left, and he feels a couple of vertebrae cracking. God, he needs a hot shower.

He opens his eyes. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” Her head is also tilted to the left. She takes one, two, three steps and kisses him. All the air in his lungs is expelled in a quivering puff. His arms find their way around her waist and he presses her to him. He’s hard already. _Jesus fuck_.

“Yeah, I want to have sex.” Her voice is a honeyed murmur.

He kisses her hard, chasing a faint chocolate taste. He’s impatient, he knows he won’t last. But he’s more than ready to make it up to her. “I wanna fuck you hard. Will you let me?”

He has slowly unbuttoned her blouse, and the tips of his fingers graze the swells of her breasts.

“Yes” she sighs.

Her unquestioned compliance sets his nerves aflame. She’s his to take, and he’s feeling fucking greedy. He turns her around and she lowers her upper body until her elbows are resting on the desk. He fishes in his backpack for a condom and rolls it on. His hands are shaking with pure need; the act of taking the hem of her skirt and lifting it up tenses all the muscles in his abdomen.

He grabs her panties and rips them. Clara lets out a delectable gasp. He wants to taste it, to swallow it. He wants all of her. He stuffs the torn underwear in his pocket. His fingers find her clit and they circle it with the only dash of restraint he’s been able to muster. He slides his middle finger inside and watches as she raises her shoulders and arches her back just a little. He adds his ring finger and Clara’s reaction changes direction: she slumps on the desk, a soft moan reaching his ears. That moan makes his entire body catch fire. He grabs her and thrusts into her. “Fuck.”

It’s too much, she’s too much: the partially revealed skin of her back, creamy and beckoning; the softness of her ass, which he grabs handfuls of, her flesh warm and supple. And her cunt. Her unbelievable hot cunt. He finds himself whispering her name. Each roll of his hips has him whispering her name, whispering filthy compliments that his mind conjures and that his mouth voices but there’s a strange disconnect between the two so he’s only aware of what he says after he says it. _Clara. Your cunt is so fucking perfect. Clara. Fucking you is heavenly. I wanna taste you. I wanna taste your cunt. I’m gonna come. I’m gonna fucking come. And then I’m gonna taste you._

Clara pushes her hips against him and he experiences a full-body shiver as he comes. He can’t help but dig his fingertips into her hips and grind against her. A half-moan, half-grunt leaves him as he flops on top of her, panting. Clara’s body is so warm to the touch, and that warmth seeps through her clothes and encompasses him, and he buries his nose in her neck, a sigh of genuine contentment tangling itself in the threads of her hair.

He raises himself, and so does Clara. When she turns, he takes her face in his hands and kisses her. She caresses his earlobes with her thumbs and presses her chest to his. A sudden urge sweeps through him: to undress her, to bare her to him.

Clara wears a veneer he finds most intriguing. Stripping her of her clothes might bring him closer to revealing what lies underneath. Or it might conceal it further. He pictures himself looking for clues: inspecting the curve of her shoulder, the hollow of her clavicle, the softness of her stomach. He would search the back of her knees, the swells of her calves, the sharpness of her ankles for specks of truth about who she really is.

He gently lifts her and sits her on his desk. His chair swivels next to him, but he wants, he needs her to see him bent, bowed before her, so he kneels. Does the sweet crevice between her thighs offer an inkling of Clara? He swipes his tongue along her cunt, wet and hot as ever. She lets out a gasp, the exact timber of it as the one he heard when he tore her underwear. The obsessive streak in him will catalogue every sound she makes. He doesn’t know if they will do this again, so thoroughness is in order.

When he sucks the hood of her clit into his mouth, her hands ends up twisted in his hair. When he pushes it slightly back and flicks his tongue flat against her clit, he gets a filthy moan in response. By the time she comes, he’s going to be hard again.

Her taste is engulfing, overpowering: he lets it take hold of his mouth, coat his tongue, drip down his throat. He learns she prefers sucking to licking. He learns she likes it when he dips the tip of his tongue inside her then drags it upward. He learns the tenderness of her thighs with the pads of his fingers. And each touch, each inhale, each obscene flick of his tongue draws a sound out of her, and he tucks them away in a small box in his mind that he will open when he’s by himself.

Until she murmurs his name. It’s more of an exhalation; he almost feels it hovering above his head, and when it descends, it makes her tug on his curls even harder than before. He wants that sound to be the last thing he hears before his death. It makes him want to stay on his knees forever, face flushed against her cunt, on the off chance she’ll say his name like that again.

Whatever deity he might have prayed to at some point in his life, however, takes pity on him because he needn’t kneel for eternity: Clara breathes out his name yet again, and then one more time followed by an absolutely lovely “I’m gonna come all over your fucking face.” He chuckles and sucks on her clit one last time before she lets out a filthy groan and collapses onto herself, her whole body vibrating with pleasure.

She’s gasping for breath, and he feels her fingernails scratching on his scalp. He raises himself, not without planting a wet kiss on her left thigh. His heartbeat seems to ripple right past his breastbone and down to his abdomen, where it ceases to be a steady thump and morphs into a fickle fluttering. _Hmm_.

Clara opens her eyes and her mouth curves in a demure smile, and he can’t help but mirror that gesture. And then he kisses her. The kiss itself is indecisive: he wants to open her up with his tongue just like he did mere moments ago; he wants, too, the lazy softness of post-orgasmic kissing. He decides, ultimately, for the latter.

He’s hard again, but he doesn’t want to hassle her. Clara begs to differ, though. She snakes her hand into his pants and starts to stroke him, and a bashful moan leaves his mouth.

“Fuck me again.”

He finds himself nodding, defenseless. After another condom is hurriedly searched for and put on, he takes his cock in his hand and angles his hips. Clara raises her right knee as high as his chest, and he slides inside.

This time around, they find a rhythm much faster and less tentatively. When she sneaks her hand between them, he gently brushes it away. He wants to be the sole cause of her unraveling tonight. And he knows now what she likes and how she likes it. He’s certain there’s still room for learning, especially with someone as inscrutable as Clara. But his knowledge of her is enough to make her come one more time before they leave this office.

And she does. And it’s as delightful and glorious as before. She’s a tad more vocal this time around. “Your cock is so—you’re so fucking—fuck, Viago, fuck, please I—"

“Please what?” She’s making him _tease_. He wants to kiss her, to taste her pleading, so he leans forward and swirls his tongue around hers. “Please what, Clara.”

A desperate whimper. “Please make me come. Please make me come—make me—“

 _Make me yours_. Is that what she wants to say? He’s projecting. He’s fantasizing. He wants to hear those words stumble out of her throat. He thrusts harder, but not faster. Harder, harder, the motion of his fingers against her clit more relentless. She pants, freezes and then holds him tightly as she comes. He holds her, too. He holds her and soaks up her overflowing pleasure, amasses it and then releases it with a strangled grunt and a violent shake of his hips.

He doesn’t know how long they remain entangled. Hours, possibly. Minutes, probably. Clara’s hair is awfully tousled; he must have run his hands through it. He tucks a strand behind her ear.

 _Come home with me let’s take a shower together let me fuck you on my bed it’s big and solitary or is it lonely I can’t tell the difference anymore_.

They gather their belongings and Clara leaves first. She offers him a mystifying smile as she exits his office. He takes off his tie, pours some hand sanitizer and wipes his desk. He can’t have the cleaning staff catch a whiff of the sickly sweet smell of sex. He can, however, savor her taste as he drives home.


	3. It's already been done: undo it

  


When she got the call, she took a few days to take care of things, as her aunt called it. She didn’t do much. She let her aunt take care of things while she bit her lip and accepted condolences. And then she made the call. She didn’t even bother going to the hospital to pick up whatever she’d left in her locker and to say goodbye to her colleagues. They wouldn’t miss her, and she wouldn’t miss them.

Grace’s father has owned a bookshop since they were children. Clara asked him if she could list the bookshop as her place of employment for her entire adult life. Charles didn’t refuse. He understood her struggle; coming from a family of lawyers, becoming a modest bookshop owner wasn’t easy. It had cost him. So he didn’t judge when Clara bent to her parents’ will. Especially when she had very few living relatives. No siblings. One aunt, one living grandparent. Grace and her family —big, warm, loving— became a haven. No blood siblings, but a makeshift sisterhood. Very little parental affection, but genuine gestures of love from Charles and Daisy. So Clara asked Charles to lie for her, and he agreed immediately. She didn’t want anyone to know her true profession. She was just a bookshop assistant.

She knows she has a tendency toward opaqueness. She dislikes the idea of being seen. She mistrusts the act of showing herself. She loathes the notion of being known. She obscures her true self with magic-like tricks: she offers half-truths, partially disclosed sentiments, ambiguous insinuations. She has had few friends other than Grace. These friendships were genuine, but she and the other parties drifted apart, as it is known to happen.

As for romantic entanglements, the repetitive negative outcomes chipped away her most optimistic inclinations. Her approach is scientific in nature: she has conducted the same experiment multiple times, introducing new variables. The result has been the same every time. So she ended up with an axiom: romance is a waste of time. And a waste of resources. Time and energy are valuable resources, why squander them? So she keeps to herself. She knows she is perceived as aloof. But she has not made herself unapproachable, at least not yet. She engages. She partakes. Her work luncheons are enough evidence of that.

When her colleagues whip out their probes and aim them at her, she smiles and carefully dodges them. It’s like gymnastics, or like those heist films where one must evade the bright, red lasers. No grand revelations have resulted from these inquiries. Her answers are strictly grammatical —those WH- questions do the heavy lifting. The Yes or No answers, while not easy, are succinct, most of the time, at least.

 _Do you think you’re living your best life?_ How does one answer such a question? Break it into smaller parts and call it a day. Do you think you’re living? _I’m quite certain I’m not dead, so yes. Yes, I am._ Done. Luckily, the other assistants are both more interesting and more willing to talk about their lives. So Clara remains unseen, unknown.

Except by Viago. Well, sort of. He has seen her in compromising positions, yes. They have fucked several more times after the second time in his office. He offered to give her a ride one night, and she accepted. He fucked her against her front door, pants halfway down her legs, bra snatched down, braid almost undone.

 _How ‘bout I give you a ride tomorrow?_ She had asked. She fucked him on his sofa, knees pressed to his hips, hand curled around his (ugly) tie, pulling him toward her so she could bite him.

When they stumbled into his flat, he tried to steer her to his bedroom. Pulling his cock into her mouth after she sat him down on the sofa changed his mind. Clara likes his cock. Big but not too big, thick but not too thick. And Viago made the most delicious noise when she licked her way up his shaft and closed her mouth around the head. He’s quite vocal during sex, and she enjoys that far too much. When she sat astride his legs and guided him inside, he grabbed her head and moaned in her mouth. She could almost feel its vibration in her own throat.

Fucking Viago engages her in the reality of others far more than eating lunch with her peers. Clara finds herself seeking the scent of his neck, of his wrists —he has a tattoo on his right wrist that puzzles her so. She has licked it more than once, and his breath always catches when she does. She entertains the idea of searching for other tattoos, but that would require a removal of clothing that goes beyond the strictly functional, so she leaves it be. That’s why she refuses to acknowledge his flat has other spaces, including one with a bed; there is no need for them to learn more about each other than what they can see and touch and lick and suck.

The second time they fucked in his place, he again tried to guide her to his bedroom. She shook her head and uttered a simple command: _pin me down on the floor and fuck me._ He didn’t object. He buried his head between her thighs and made her come in less than three minutes. If she wanted distance, he made sure to give it to her: he sat back on his heels and perched her legs on his shoulders as he slid inside. But there’s only so much space they can have between them. His eyes were still on her, gauging her breathing, probing how hard he could thrust into her.

Clara watched the hypnotic motion of his hips, the concentration of his gaze. His grunts filled her ears, making her lightheaded, filling her with need. What she longed for, she wasn’t sure. His breath on her skin. The shadow of a word. He said one. _Clara_. Then three more. _Look at me_. He pounded into her, desperate, almost vicious. She took his tie in her hand and pulled him toward her. She kissed his orgasm out of him. He growled in her mouth as he spasmed atop her body. She gently pushed him aside and stood. She disliked leaving him there on the floor, flushed and heaving. But what else could she do? She muttered a goodnight and left, frowning.

He retaliated, though. He saw her rationale for avoiding his most personal space as if she had spelled it out. It’s hard to say if he took offense; he has never brought it up. But that night, like that second time in his office, he tore her underwear and made a show of stuffing it in his pocket. He hasn’t returned either pair. Nor the third pair he ripped when he fucked her on her sofa.

He bent her over and pushed roughly inside her, cursing. He pounded merciless into her, hoarse grunts and vulgar moans filling the air. Clara could barely think, and her precarious position on the sofa made touching herself slightly difficult. But she could feel it. His vexation. It was palpable: the flesh of her ass was left with angry marks. He didn’t attempt to touch her, he just fucked her. And just before he came, he leaned down and pressed his face between her shoulder blades.

There was a sound. Clara would spend not just one, nor two, nor three nights trying to decipher that sound. Had it been a sigh, perhaps? A word? He came hard, his grip painful, bruising, a savage grunt echoing across her living room. She was tired and angry; she would have to finish herself off after he left. A tacit understanding had been reached, or so she’d thought. Their encounters served a very specific purpose, the most primal of all. Termination was still on the table should he grow uncomfortable with their more carnal interactions. The twitch in her gut at the thought of not fucking him anymore carries no weight in their final considerations.

She stood and absentmindedly arranged her clothes. When she felt his grip on her shoulders, she tried to shimmy out of it. He didn’t let her. He sank his head in the curve of her shoulder and rubbed his nose on her neck. She doesn’t know how she ends up sitting on the sofa, legs on either side of him. She does know the feel of his scruffy beard on her thighs.

Her skirt falls like a veil around him, obscuring him from her view. The first lick drags a sharp cry out of her. And then it’s all open-mouthed kisses and hard sucks, and he hums in pleasure, _bastard_ , he hums against her as he lifts her skirt so she can watch, a one-man show with a lone voyeur who’s slowly diluting into a continuous drip, drip, drip of pleasure.

When Viago meets her gaze, she could all but dissolve. His eyes are so vibrant, so intense in their lust. She almost wishes she had an actual veil to conceal herself. She feels so seen. Her desire, and her desire being met unquestionably, wordlessly, opens a fissure that lets the light in. And the light is tinted a lovely shade of hazel. For all that she might have considered holy at one point or another, she can’t look away. Viago takes her hand and tangles it in his hair, and she wants to pull but she wants to caress, too. And just when she’s about to do one or the other, he takes her other hand and laces their fingers.

Darkness engulfs her. She has closed her eyes and she’s coming so hard everything around her ceases to be. Everything save for one hand and its iron grip. An anchor. When she’s aware of her surroundings again, she sees Viago on his knees, nuzzling her left thigh. Clara realizes there are no lights on; the only light in the room comes from the street lamp outside. And yet, she feels as if there were a bright light right above her; on her, even. Viago’s face is so wet she blushes. Meekly, she wipes it with trembling fingers. _Stop looking at me like that. Stop looking at me. Stop seeing me_.

He gives her a soft peck on the lips before rising to his feet and fixing his clothes. The glance he takes around her living room makes her fidget where she sits. It’s not her most personal space, but there are broad strokes of who she is here and there.

A poster of her favorite movie. A minuscule collection of vinyl records —she prefers streaming. An array of small and medium-sized plants —from snake plants to moth orchids to peace lilies. Splinters of one Clara Reyes. The door is opened and closed without any goodbyes uttered. She sighs, relieved. But how come relief feels so empty?

  


  


“You’re coming, right?”

Ramona has never asked such a direct question, so Viago sputters for a second or two.

“Yes?”

She smirks. One first after the other, it seems. “You have to come. Everyone’s going, or everyone’s said they’re going. You simply can’t refuse.” She sits across from him. Is it the suit? It’s a gray checkered suit that he’d bought several months before and then forgot. His penchant for eccentric fashion stems from his memories of his father, a man almost as unfathomable as his assistant. He can see Clara; Ramona never closes the door when she ventures into his office.

Their last encounter was… tense. He wants her so badly, but he never finds any room to voice that desire. It can only manifest itself when he’s inside of her, moving against her warm body, letting that warmth swallow him whole; or when he’s kneeling before her, mouth full of her, of what she tastes like, of what she feels like. There’s something —no, there’s a lot of Clara that she keeps out of sight, tucked away in an interstice he can’t even discern from the distance she relegates everyone to.

How big is that solitude, exactly? How does she measure it? He has no trouble picturing her as a diligent surveyor, marking the land around her, laying boundaries that cannot be bridged. He has caught a glimpse, however. That night in her flat, she was more disarmed than he’s ever seen her. It must be hard, and exhausting, to stay behind such a cloak, especially when you’re on display, open and vulnerable. And he enjoys prying her open too much.

The thrill of having her at his mercy —her muscles taut, her jaw slack, her cunt so very wet for him, because of him— is incomparable. Their eyes met and he saw a sliver of her loneliness. Or was he gazing into a mirror? No, he saw _her_. The tremor of her hand as she wiped his face clean solidified the certainty of his discovery. And all he could do was give her a soft kiss before leaving. A passionate kiss would have unraveled him. It would have made him succumb to the urge to say something, anything. _I’m right here. Let me in_. The hints he spotted weren’t near enough, but they were something.

That was almost a week ago. Their interactions remained as professional as ever, save for the winks Clara throws his way when Ramona comes into his office. And save for the sinful blowjob she gave him the previous night. The sight of Clara on her knees, cheeks hollowed and chin glistening as she choked on his cock could have stopped his heart.

He remembers tracing her eyebrow with his thumb and then twisting his hand in her hair to push her further down on his cock. He remembers warning her — _m’gonna come, Clara, gonna fucking come in that pretty mouth of yours_ — and then plummeting to a chasm where nothing but her warm mouth and undiluted pleasure existed.

He doesn’t remember, though, who initiated the kiss that followed. The memory that lingers is his tongue licking remnants of his pleasure in her mouth, and Clara’s fingers in his hair as she kissed him hard. Then she just stood and left, as wordlessly as he had that night in her flat.

Ramona eyes him carefully. He still thinks about her, just much less these days. He still wants her, but he can’t say if as much as he wants Clara.

Ramona is so… transparent. She doesn’t disclose personal information unprompted, but she doesn’t withhold it when asked. She allows herself to be perceived, and she builds her authority on that perception. Yes, Viago would not mind being bossed around by Ramona in his bedroom. She would actually set foot in it!

“Yes, I’ll be there” he smiles. She smiles back, and it’s so extraordinary that his own smile grows wider.

“I’ll buy you a drink” she retorts as she rises to leave. Everyone at the office is aware of his infatuation, Clara included. It must have reached Ramona’s ears long ago. He cannot say for sure her invitation obeys an at last requited interest, but it’s not far-fetched either. If that’s the case, why now? Does she know about his and Clara’s… entanglement? Does anyone? Booze makes people awfully chatty, so he’ll find out soon enough. Is Clara going?

She enters his office, a knowing smirk on her face. Next time he’ll ask Ramona to close the door.

“Are you going?”

“Natalia will never leave me alone if I don’t.”

He nods. “I’ll see you there, then.”

Clara chuckles. “So I can leave now? Cause it’s only 2:40.”

There are several questions on his mind, but they’re shapeless, pointless. He lacks the will to articulate them and the disposition to hear the answers. Perhaps he knows them already. Despite her frankly maddening tendency to blow smoke in people’s faces, Clara is an open book when she decides to be. And she has been with him. Their intimacy, while artificial, has shed enough light on her intentions. She’s been nothing but deliberate in her evasion of closeness.

“I think Ramona asked me out.”

She quirks an eyebrow, amused. “Ya think? Ramona is many things, but ambiguous isn’t one of them.” She looks him in the eye. “Go for it. Rumor has it you’ve had a thing for her since she started working here. Now or never.”

If he thought Clara would stutter in her rejection, he’s a bigger fool than he himself expected. So he nods again. What else can he do?

“Nice suit, by the way.”

A third nod, and a bashful smile. Does it look as sad as it feels? A ding from his computer saves him from having to watch Clara walk away.

  


The betting pool seems to have been updated. He’s still in the dark regarding the specifics, but everyone at the bar is subtly and not so subtly keeping their eyes peeled. Contrary to his expectations, he’s having a good time.

He attended one of these half-improvised “It’s Friday, let’s go for drinks” gatherings a few months after he joined the company and he ended up meeting the woman he’d spend the next three years with —with none of his colleagues non the wiser— so it’s fitting that this time around the stakes are comparable.

He didn’t know then that he and Katherine would fall in love and then fall apart, and he has the same uncertainty about Ramona. He figured love is all about that uncanny amalgamation of conviction and doubt, that juncture of yearning and dread. It’s too soon to ask Ramona about such things, and he very much likes the aura of promise that surrounds them.

Ramona’s face changes when she laughs; it becomes an unexpected array of colorful emotions splashed onto a soft canvas. It’s bright, vivid, beckoning. The other designers that had joined them in their booth had, one by one, found themselves at other tables, at the bar, at the stage —it’s karaoke night.

Natalia impressed everyone with her smooth voice while rocking it to Sophie Ellis Bextor’s _Murder on the Dance Floor_. Ramona had given a decent rendition of Madonna’s _Don’t Tell Me_. Several other assistants and designers had savored the spotlight with performances that went from the acceptable to the ridiculous.

He knows Clara is cued to sing at any given moment. He saw Natalia trying her best to convince her, and apparently those persuasion skills are not to be challenged, for Clara finally agreed. He cannot deny he’s impatient to watch her, and that impatience clashes with his desire to narrow his field of vision until it only contains the woman across from him: a very tipsy Ramona. He sees the opportunity and he takes it.

“Have you always known I like you?”

The smile she gives him is so unlike her his heartbeat quickens. “Yes. Well, yes? You never gave any explicit indication, but it wasn’t that hard to gather.”

“So… why now?” His words falter slightly. “I… I’m having trouble understanding the timing.”

She nods and traces the rim of her glass with her index finger. “Are we being completely honest with each other here?”

 _Shit_. She knows.

He clears his throat. “Yes.”

“Are you and Clara involved?”

It would have been far easier to answer a more blunt question such as _Are you and Clara fucking?_ But in truth, involvement is far from what has happened between them, so maybe Ramona’s question is not that hard to answer after all.

“No.”

No one can accuse him of being dishonest: try as he might to rationalize it, what he and Clara have engaged in cannot be classified as anything beyond sexual. His hunger, his longing obeys to a need for human connection to which sex is often a stepping stone. He has never been a womanizer. He likes sex, he isn’t made of stone. But sleeping around has never been a habit nor a goal.

He has had genuine relationships —with women and men— that started as apparent meaningless hookups. Not all of them became serious enough to entertain the possibility of a future, but they were all earnest. One of them settled into a friendship he holds dear. Another would leave him splintered and aching. And here he is, willing to try again.

He likes, he loves having people in his life. As inaccessible as he might make himself sometimes, as intolerable even, with the nonstop flirting, for instance, he doesn’t actively close himself to the prospect of others. Unlike certain someone. And it frustrated him to no end to feel himself so close to Clara and so fucking far away at once. Her flesh is so soft and so warm but Clara herself is an impenetrable wall, a one-woman fortress. But he didn’t want to tear it down; he just wanted to find a gate.

It’s exhausting, really. He’d wanted to see her so badly, to unearth the self she excels at hiding. But what could he do? Make her? Bulldoze his way in? He shouldn’t have to wear himself down to be acknowledged. So best to leave it be.

Ramona eyes him, pensive. “And you haven’t been involved?”

He downs the rest of his drink. “Is my answer going to find its way to the betting pool crowd?”

Her eyes widen. “No. What the fuck? I’m not part of it, Viago, if that’s what you’re asking. And I don’t intend to gossip about you and your assistant.”

He can’t help but chuckle. _You and your assistant_. So graceless when put in those terms.

“We fucked. Nothing more.”

Ramona nods. “There were rumors… about you and her. About her alone. She’s so… hermetic. People get curious, you know?”

He does, much to his chagrin.

“You fucked in your office, didn’t you? On the desk, I bet.” She wiggles her eyebrows.

Ah! Having those encounters presented to him in such a cold, exposed way is quite embarrassing. Do his superiors know? Will he and Clara lose their jobs? He remembers something Clara said that first night. _I don’t really need this job_. In classic Clara fashion, that statement was obscure and ambiguous.

“Yes. I’m not proud of that, Ramona. I know it was highly unprofessional. But I can’t undo it.”

Her expression softens a little. “I like you too, Viago. You’re easy to like, actually. It’s just that the idea of getting involved with a colleague… it’s troublesome, to say the least. Clearly you don’t have the same hindrance.” That last sentence is marked by a mischievous smile, a smile he returns.

Ramona is also incredibly easy to like. He admires her strong work ethic and her intelligence. And he really likes her long legs and her dark hair. He’s always been a sucker for brunettes.

“I take it you understand fucking Clara is off the table, now. Hehe.” Her cheeks flush with her joke, and he gets a sudden and burning desire to kiss her. But not here, in front of everyone.

Speaking of everyone, they cheer as Clara takes the stage. She has a sheepish smile on her face, and, in a nervous gesture he has never seen before, she tucks her hair behind her ear nonstop. The Cardigan’s _Erase / Rewind_ starts playing. Clara takes a deep breath and leads with the sultry _hm hm_ that kicks the song into gear.

Her gaze travels across the room, not settling on anyone or anything in particular. Ramona has turned her back to him in order to watch Clara, but Viago feels like his own face might betray what he’s feeling if he doesn’t exert the utmost control over it.

 _Hey /What did you hear me say? / You know the difference it makes / What did you hear me say?_ She punctuates the last verse with a wicked smile. Her voice is smooth and honeyed; not as rich as Natalia’s, but still enthralling.

 _I said it’s fine before / But I don’t think so no more / I said it’s fine before._ The same roguish smile. His ego hounds him with rapid flares of self-importance. She couldn’t have chosen that song at random, could she? Are there hints he’s missing? She has not looked at him once.

 _Erase and rewind / Cause I’ve been changing my mind._

She’s wearing a pink dress with a pattern of tiny blue flowers, and white sneakers. When did she change into those? Her hips sway to the beat and her fingers play with the mic stand.

 _It’s not that I don’t know / I just don’t want it to grow / It’s not that I don’t know._

He wants to take her in his arms and kiss her deeply. He wants to sink his hands in her hair and slide them down to her waist and the small of her back and press her against him until all he can feel is her. He aches to have that dress fall around his head as he eats her out, his name a breathless moan out of her throat.

He’s forced to look away. His tryst with Clara has come to an end.

 _I’ve changed my mind / I take it back._

Ramona embodies the openness he seeks, the vulnerability he feels is imperative between two people who want each other.

 _Erase and rewind / Cause I’ve been changing my mind._

He has never been much of a drinker, but he orders another scotch when he sees a passing server. The song ends and everyone claps and cheers. Ramona turns, a smile on her face. One more drink and she’ll get sloshed.

“Would you like some water?”

Her laughter is sparkling, and he laughs with her.

“Yes! Some water would be great, actually. Then I’ll get another drink.” She winks.

“Looks like Clara has a fan.” Natalia is slightly more drunk than her boss, who gasps dramatically at her statement.

“Do tell!”

“See for yourself!” She points to the bar, where Clara is talking to a beautiful blonde. Their faces are awfully close, and the blonde is twirling a lock of Clara’s hair around her finger.

“She app- approached Clara right after her song and—“ Natalia manages to both squint and frown— “I overheard some of their convo, not gonna lie. And that blonde hottie asked her about a hospital. Like, 'have you talked to any of the doctors or nurses’ or somethin’. Do you think Clara is sick or something?”

Viago can’t seem to tear his eyes off the two women at the bar. They look _intimate_. Clara’s body language is beckoning, welcoming. Like Ramona’s has been tonight. Who is that woman?

“I don’t think that’s any of our business.” Does his voice sound strained?

Ramona squints. “Maybe they’re fucking, or dating, or dated.” She turns to the bar again, thoughtful. Natalia has left as stealthily as she arrived.

Perhaps it’s not Clara, after all. She can be open, just not with him. Is their professional relationship the impediment in this scenario? Or is there something else? He’ll give himself an ulcer if he keeps obsessing over this. Time to let go.

“So how about that water? It’s better with lime.”

Ramona gives him a smile that makes his heart stop shivering.


	4. No matter how it ends; no matter how it starts

  


“You look well. Not being miserable suits you.”

“Was I always miserable?”

“You were the poster for misery, Clara. It was exhausting to be around you.”

“Harsh as ever, I see.”

Lena chuckles. “You need harshness once in a while. You get so complacent in your ways, so arrogant in your certainties. Loosen up a bit, why don’t you?”

Clara looks away. Lena’s love was always so… bruising. She pulled no punches, and she waved her fists around, like a boxer in the ring. She knew that Clara would fight back, that she had brass knuckles underneath.

Clara wasn’t as emotionally wary as she is now, however. Lena _knows_ her. Amidst that vortex of scalding desire, they were able, at times, to find some respite. To find comfort. To find contentment. Until Lena decided to leave. And Clara was left with an open chest wound and a unsolvable puzzle: how can I make it work? She couldn’t. Not with Lena, or any other. The gash closed, eventually. She kept the nasty scab as a reminder.

“So who were we trying to dupe?”

Lena is far too perceptive; it was one of the reasons Clara was so head over heels for her. That and her amazing tits.

“Someone I shouldn’t have fucked.” She gave a hasty goodbye to any coworker in sight and took Lena to a bar they used to frequent when they were together. 

“That cute girl in the red pencil skirt?”

Clara laughs. Natalia sure is cute, but she’s very young. And very straight.

“My boss.”

Lena snorts. “A man?” Clara nods, slightly embarrassed.

Lena just laughs. “God, that hospital was certainly holding you back, wasn’t it? Good for you! Tell me about him. Is he hot? Is he a good fuck?”

Viago does himself exactly zero favors with his fashion choices. But he’s nicely built under those fugly suits and dreadful sweaters. Granted, she hasn’t seen him _sans_ clothes. But when she holds him close, she allows herself to feel him under all that fabric. Her fingertips have run down the muscles of his back, along the soft expanse of his abdomen, across the sturdiness of his chest.

She cannot deny she’s obsessed with his legs. That night in his office, when she thought it would be fun to cater to that so very male fantasy of seeing their secretary on her knees with a mouthful of cock, she pushed down his pants lower than usual for their encounters. She discovered a pair of slender yet muscled thighs. Maybe he plays football. Or he goes running very early in the morning. She entertained a few more leisure activities until he let out his first moan. His whole body was oriented to her touch: he closed his knees around her waist, and he tucked her hair behind her ears before sinking his hands in it and pulling her closer, lower.

She took the opportunity to nibble once or twice on the meat of those thighs. She was convinced he had more than the one tattoo on his wrist, and she suspected she might find them on one or maybe both of his legs. But alas, she could hardly move or think while sucking his cock, and his moans and groans became more and more encompassing. He did warn her, bless his heart. _M’gonna fucking come in that pretty mouth of yours_. And she had let him. As towering as his body felt in their position, it didn’t feel imposing, oppressive. Viago has a way of getting impossibly close without violating personal boundaries. He doesn’t assume her body is his to bend at will. He doesn’t coerce in that surreptitious way men often do. He takes what she offers and then simply… inquires.

That’s one of the reasons she didn’t hesitate to fuck him again. One of the reasons this went past the original plan of being a one-time fuck, an emergency scratch for an inconvenient itch. He had made this so fucking appealing. The friction, the cadence of their bodies against one another. The startled sighs, the breathless moaning and cursing. His voice becomes this seductive murmur, a captivating plea. And the aftermath is always this spill of warmth, of… solace.

She hates it. She hates it because it rips the veil ever so delicately. She hates him, _fuck_ , she hates that Ramona will let him catch his breath on her breast as she runs her fingers through his curls. Those ugly curls on his stupid head. She hates them both. They can devour each other for all she cares.

“Yeah, he’s a pretty good fuck.”

“It only took you like five whole years to answer, huh.”

“Shut up.”

Lena giggles. Then she gasps, her mouth a comical O. “Do you… do you like him? You like him, don’t you? Admit it! Hahaha!”

Her laughter is as bubbly as Clara remembers it. She refuses to answer. What’s the point? _This bitch_.

“Well, well, well. Look who’s not a robot, after all.”

Clara hates that she feels the need to defend herself. “Chill, will ya? I like him, yes, so? I’ve liked many people.” She shrugs. “He’s pretty likable. I mean, he’s an idiot, and he dresses horribly, and he puts brown sugar in his coffee. Like, who does that?! The other day he was talking about how cool his car is. Could he be any more lame? And he likes to draw. What is he, five? He makes these stupid little drawings in the margins of documents and then I have to print them again. He’s also super neat, like, not even my mother was that neat, and that woman was insanely fastidious. I bet he’s the one who makes chore wheels for his roommates. Wait, he doesn’t have roommates. Even worse! He probably makes one for himself! What a loser! I can’t believe I fucked this guy! His name is Viago. What the hell? Does he live in a creepy castle or something? Is he a vampire from an Anne Rice novel? Oh, and he plays the organ. What a fucking nerd! And right now he’s fucking his colleague, his tall, amazing colleague he’s been in love with for like a million years. Good for her! She can print his fucking reports next time he draws on them.”

Lena’s face is a hilarious grimace of faux mortification. “Dude. That was… are you alright, do you want some water?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

She snickers. “Clara. I’m going to speak to you as if you were an idiot. Wait, you know what? Not a hypothetical. You like this guy. Admit it. You like him. You. Like. Him.” She sighs and powers through. “No one can give you the certainty of everlasting love. No one can promise you they won’t break your heart. Maybe they’ll do it inadvertently, or they will do it on purpose. It’s usually the former. But a broken heart is a broken heart, isn’t it? Everything inside burns. We know that. But, bro, that can’t stop you from trying. Don’t be a quitter, it’s fucking lame.”

Clara wants to cry, but she won’t. Not because Lena would judge her —she wouldn’t— but because it’s a habit. _There are things one must always do in private: crying is one of them. If you must, of course. If you’re weak. Don’t be weak, child_. Her parents taught her that love was a weakness. She wanted to prove them wrong, and then she, however unwittingly, proved them right. That’s what she thought after the last breakup. _I should have listened. They’re out to get you: don’t let them_. Now… her certainty stumbles.

“But… How can I know Viago is nothing more than a fancy?”

“You can know. You do know. You just need to acknowledge it. You have fucked people with no strings attached before. You can quit this job, can’t you? And yet you haven’t. All these things you claim to hate about him… Clara, it’s so transparent. You’re so intelligent, but you’re also a huge dumbass.”

“His car is the opposite of cool, though.”

“Fuck him in his car. That’ll make it cool.”

“It’s too late. He does have a crush on his coworker, and she seems to have given him green light to pursue.”

“What do you think he wants?”

Clara scoffs. How on Earth would she know that? “I have no clue. I mean… I know there’s something about our encounters that doesn’t sit well with him. Something bothers him. But I cannot say for sure I know what it is.”

“Then ask him. You do realize you have to talk to him, right? Unless he can read minds and shit.”

Talking! She knows, or she at least suspects what it is. Viago is not as cryptic as she tends to be. Clara is aware that he wanted a higher degree of openness, but how high? She does not know. And she hates speculation. So talking it is. _Fuck_.

She and Lena used to come here a lot. But she wants to go home. Viago probably took Ramona home. Did she invite him in? Did they fuck in her bedroom? Did they chat afterward? Is he spending the night? Lena lives on the other side of town, so they can’t share a ride. They stand outside the bar, close to each other. It’s fucking cold.

“Thanks for the favor. I owe you one.”

Lena shakes her head. “Don’t sweat it, babe.” She gets into the car and waves. “Let it happen!” She screams as the car drives away.

She can try.

  


  


“Can you give us a minute?”

Clara looks up from her tablet at Ramona, then nods. She only speaks when spoken to, and only if she must. He thought it a secretarial habit at first; while not submissive, Clara is often strangely deferential. And now he knows why.

He’s savoring this an awful lot, yes, but he can’t stop himself. Clara is not submissive, no. Clara is deceptive. Clara is a liar. Her demure nature is meant to mislead, to beguile, even. The self she has hidden so carefully was discovered by an elementary Google search. He spent all Sunday angry and disheartened and even more puzzled than before. Why? Why is she working as the meek assistant to an ordinary designer? Is the bookshop real or an invention of hers? Who swore by her integrity on the other side of the phone?

Ramona had given him a soft kiss on his cheek Friday night, when he took her home. Her lips had lingered, and her eyes were dark when he looked at her.

“Let’s see what happens” she had murmured.

 _Let’s_. They texted each other on Saturday; it started awkward and too formal before noon, and it was basically all emojis by evening. And then, on Sunday, he remembered Natalia’s words. Clara, hospital, doctors. He whipped out his phone, a strange feeling in his gut. Clara Reyes, hospital. It had been so easy. So quick. He’d stared at the screen for far too long. There was even a photo. She wasn’t smiling, and the scrubs were a faded blue that made her look… ephemeral. Who is the woman who sits at the desk outside his office?

His _Good morning_ on Monday was muttered, no eye contact. And Clara must have sensed his disgruntlement because she didn’t offer any pastries. All questions were asked via chat. Tuesday was the same. And now Ramona’s in his office, and Clara is there, taking notes, as she always does, but the air is so very heavy. So Ramona asks her to leave.

“What’s going on?”

He wants to tell her the truth. It’s in his best interest to do so; he knows the tension can be easily misconstrued as hard feelings stemming from an abrupt ending to their little fling. But he also feels compelled to keep Clara’s secret, at least until she explains herself. Cause she will. She must. Does she owe him an explanation?

“Viago. I cannot tell you if you and I are going to get involved, but… it’s a possibility, isn’t it? Unless you and Clara are still-“

“We aren’t.” Ramona nods very slowly. “We aren’t, I promise. There’s… there’s something I need to discuss with her, but it’s strictly professional. And I’ll tell you once I clear it out with her.”

She offers him an earnest smile. He likes those a lot.

“Okay. It’s not my place, but please do so today. We need to review these docs again tomorrow and I’d rather not be in the middle of this awkward tension.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She snorts and opens the door.

He doesn’t know how he’s able to muster enough courage to call Clara into his office. He hates confrontations, and this has all the potential to turn into a nasty fight. Clara is packing her things, ready to leave. When she enters his office a few minutes later, she’s holding a piece of paper. His heart sinks in his chest and ends up in a black pit somewhere in his stomach.

“I- I take it that’s a resignation letter.”

“It is.”

What does she see when she looks at him? Does she catch a glimpse of his yearning, of his annoyance, of his bewilderment? Can she actually see others behind that heavy veneer?

“Maybe it’s a dumb question, but I’d like to know why.”

She lets out a sigh. “Can I sit?” He nods.

“It was unspoken, I think. Tacit. Our agreement. But it’s entirely possible that I misread the situation. It matters very little now. I feel that our relationship, our professional relationship, has been severely affected. You like your job. I’m indifferent toward mine. So I’ll just leave.”

“Plenty of other clueless executives to dupe, I suppose.”

Clara tilts her head and narrows her eyes. “What’s that?”

“You lied to me. You’re not a bookshop assistant, are you?”

He’d like to think her expression mirrors his own when she asked him if he wanted to have sex with her. Her lips are parted and Viago hates himself for wanting to kiss her. She lets out a nervous chuckle and bites her lower lip.

“No, I’m not.”

There’s only one question he wants to ask.

“Why?”

She looks to his right, to the window behind him. Her stare becomes hazy; her whole posture relaxes, and for the very first time, Viago feels like he could approach her, see her. Hold her, even. Hold the actual Clara, not the facade. She smiles, but it’s nothing but sorrowful.

“Because I hated it. I hated it so much. But I was too much of a coward to take a stand and tell my parents I loathed it. So I went to med school. I started my residency. And then I got the call informing me my parents had died. And I wasn’t devastated, I was relieved.”

She focuses her eyes on him again. “They hadn’t been buried a full day when I quit my job at the hospital and not once did I look back. This is the first job I applied to. And I wasn’t miserable here. The idea of coming to work didn’t make me want to haul myself into incoming traffic. And I have met very nice people. And I met you. And your clothes are kooky, but I like them just the same. And your little drawings, too. And your silly European aristocrat name. And your maybe not so unearned bravado. Also, you’re a really good fuck.”

He would never admit to rehearsing what he had wanted to say. He had wanted to aim for her heart, to go for blood. The rage her deception brewed in him had pushed him toward cruelty: so many bitter words waiting to be spat out. A concoction of resentment and melancholy. _You won’t let me in, then I’ll smoke you out. I’ll drag you out, if it’s the last thing I do to you_.

Now, he sits at his desk, a different kind of ache blooming in his chest. Her ache. Her loneliness, not just his own. A few sentences had unearthed the roots of her isolation. Some of the roots, at least. Others remain deep underground, entrenched in soil he cannot rake. Only she can.

“Then don’t quit.”

She scoffs, and it embarrasses him so. It bares his pathetic arrogance. He thought he had the upper hand. He’d wanted to catch her red-handed, so to speak. To throw her lie in her face, to rub her face in it. Now he wants nothing more but to conceal his own.

“I think you and Ramona have a chance. You’ve liked her for so long. And she’s seen it now. She’s seen how great you are.”

He closes his eyes. _Don’t_.

“Sometimes all it takes is a little… meddling.”

When he opens them again, Clara is standing.

“Why are you quitting?”

She shrugs. “It’s for the best, I think. I don’t have the best timing.”

He has stood, too. His big desk is between them, but he cannot say if it’s the only obstacle. Why are things between them so fucking complicated? Why is he having such a hard time letting go? Why does he still want to uncover what remains hidden? There’s so much more to Clara. There’s so much more of himself that he wants her to see. So why do his feet feel lead-like? Ramona’s transparency is so enticing. And Clara’s right, he has liked her for quite some time.

“I’m—“

Clara shakes her head. “Don’t. This was my mistake.”

She might as well have punched him in the fucking chest. _A mistake_. Fair enough.

Her lip is quivering. She takes a breath, but she doesn’t say anything. She turns and leaves. He wants to follow her. But he doesn’t. No more mistakes.

  


The possibility has morphed into a reality.

Ramona asks him if he’d like to have dinner with her. Not having an assistant has made his workload heavier, and he’s tired. But he accepts. The office is alight with gossip. He sent Clara a couple of texts —her severance check was the perfect excuse— but she doesn’t get them. He sends her an email, and she replies the next day with a “Thanks”.

He almost called the bookshop. It is a real bookshop, after all. A man in his late 50s runs it. A friend? A friend of her father’s? A former paramour? He didn’t even get to give her his condolences. Based on how she spoke of her parents’ death, however, she didn’t expect any. Relieved. She had been relieved. That sounds like a strained relationship, at best. He’d wanted to reach out and hold her hand. It’s been a few days since that conversation in his office, a few nights of remembering it, of trying to hold on to every little detail. Her unguarded posture. The softness of her voice. Her words. _She’s seen it now. She’s seen how great you are_. If he’s so great, why are they in separate beds? Why did she leave him behind?

“Did knowing Clara and I had fucked influence your decision to acknowledge my interest in you?”

Ramona smirks. “Yes. But it’s hard to explain.”

“Please try.”

Ramona takes a sip of her wine and looks up, trying to organize her thoughts. It doesn’t take her long; soon her gaze is on him once more. “I liked Clara. She was very professional, and very adamant about keeping a line between work and personal life. And then you two got involved. And I thought it was interesting that it had been you, of all the people in the office, who had made her cross that line.”

Viago frowns. “It made me interesting by proxy?”

She laughs. “It made me realize that maybe there was more to you than you let on.”

“And the checkered suit, eh?” He punctuates his question with a dramatic wink.

Her laughter is louder this time, and he likes the sound. “You did look pretty good in that suit.”

“Not so good the other days.”

“You’re definitely eccentric when it comes to fashion.”

“I can’t even attempt to deny it. Gotta hide these muscles somehow, don’t want every woman in the office swooning.”

Ramona rolls her eyes, but smiles. Her hair is down, and he’s eager to run his fingers through it. He asks about her life, and she’s open and candid with every answer.

He tells her his parents died when he was much younger, so his memory of them is like an old photograph one carries around in a locket. He rarely thinks about them. They were loving and supportive, but they died so long ago. His father suspected he’d had affairs with men, but never had the courage to ask for confirmation. Ignorance is bliss kind of man. His mother knew for sure, and was nonplussed. She said love presents itself in many forms. And she said it always kicks you in the gut when it does.

He’s familiar with this kick. Katherine’s, for instance, was swift and bold, much like her exit. Clara’s would have left him wheezing on the ground, no doubt. Ramona’s… Ramona is hesitant to strike. He doesn’t let on much about his private life, no, but he’s not as opaque as Clara. What, exactly, does she think she’ll find? What does she want to find? Will it make her like him more that she does at this point?

“Would you like some dessert?”

“No, I don’t have much of a sweet tooth.” Ah. He would have liked seeing her wolf down a piece of chocolate cake; if not just to have a good excuse to lay a kiss on the corner of her mouth. Unnecessary, it turns out. She kisses him on the way to her flat. It’s awkward, but in a way he isn’t able to surmise. Their mouths meet in a perfectly adequate way. Their teeth don’t clash, it’s not clumsy or sloppy. It’s… it’s simply that: perfectly adequate. He does like the way she cups his face; it makes him move closer, but he’s too aware of the driver’s presence.

When Ramona relaxes against her front door, he knows he isn’t coming inside. A cloud of ambivalence floats above their heads; he wants this, he wants her. Why then, does he feel relief?

“Thank you for dinner.”

“My pleasure.” His reply is a puff of breath on her face as he kisses her again. He’s not trying to persuade her to let him in. What he aims for is a reaction. From whom, he cannot say.

Their kiss a little better this time. He holds her tightly, arms locked around her middle. His fingertips move about her back, ending up pressed against her spine.

In Clara’s flat, he had murmured a word. There was a moment where his frustration overrode his desire. It was both fleeting and feeble, but it had made him bend forward and press his face between her shoulder blades. And he’d uttered this word with such vehemence he was sure he had seared it on her skin.

He breaks the kiss. “I’m sorry.”

Ramona nods. “So am I.”

“What for?”

She shrugs. “I should have known. I think I did know. I just…”

He has never seen Ramona pause in doubt. “I thought there could be something. I thought I could will it into existence.”

There’s nothing he can say to make this any less uncomfortable, so he doesn’t try.

“You had this look at the bar. When she was up there, singing. I caught it when I turned. You didn’t hide it fast enough. Nobody could have hidden it fast enough.”

He can’t bring himself to look at Ramona, let alone ask what that look was. But she will tell him regardless.

“Longing.”

He closes his eyes and tilts his head. He’s so tired. So very tired.

A warm hand lands on his cheek. “Natalia has a list of candidates for the assistant position. Make sure to check it out on Monday.”

She kisses him right where her hand was. “Text me when you get home. Just so I know you’re home safe.”

He does get home safely. He eyes the sofa, the carpet. His phone is in his hand. Whatever message he sends out will not be received. He pictures it fluttering against the window, eager to be read, only to be swallowed by the ether. He types it out anyway. One last act of cowardice. One she will not witness nor harbor in the threads of her blouse until it wanes.

 _Please_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, angst with a dash of folklore. "Aim for my heart, go for blood" is a Taylor Swift lyric.


	5. Someday, somehow you'll land

  


_I know why you changed your number. Pussy!_

Clara chuckles. She’s defenseless against that accusation, though. This is the second time in less than a year that she has changed her phone number. Why delete, why block, when you can perform a rather flashy vanishing act? Her audience, however, keeps growing smaller. A handful of colleagues at the hospital. A narrower still group of someones at the agency. All silhouettes that fade in the smoke. She has always excelled at burning bridges; scavenging in the rubble is for the weak.

But isn’t cowardice a form of weakness? Viago wildly misinterpreted her words, and yet she lacked the courage to rectify. His expression hardened; he jerked back, as if she had struck him. _No. You weren’t a mistake. You’re wonderful and warm and the thought of Ramona touching you like I’ve touched you makes me choke on my own spit in anger. Please see it_. But her attempt at courage, at honesty, faltered. So she left.

He would soon find comfort in the true subject of his affection. Comfort and the clarity he so desperately seeks. And tenderness, and candor, and all of those things she was too frightened to give him. She really did have the worst timing. A too tardy realization had snatched the possibility of truthfulness right out of her hand. But she was truthful, alright. A blown cover became an opportunity to be seen. To unveil herself. Viago pulled a thread and suddenly she was half-bare before him. Had they been closer, she would have reached out and taken his hand so he could feel her skin, alight under the warmth of his gaze. A big, wooden desk stopped any attempt. A traitorous desk.

Now, she even eyes her own sofa suspiciously. She avoids being alone in her flat lest she be pestered by visions of Viago touching Ramona the way he had touched her. Is he deliciously vocal with her, too? Has Ramona traced with her fingers the tattoo she is certain he has on one of his legs? Does he warn her when he’s about to come in her mouth? Do they sleep together and find their limbs entangled when they wake?

These questions hound her regardless of place. At the bookshop, though, it’s easier to find respite. Charles is a soothing presence, and his penchant for aimless chatter helps her tune out intrusive thoughts. Grace stops by almost every day, and Clara wishes she didn’t. Her concern, while heartwarming, is unwarranted.

“It’s not concern. It’s commiseration.”

Clara snorts. “That’s fucking worse.”

“You should call him.”

“I should join the army.”

Grace looks at her, annoyed and a little taken aback.

“Oh, I thought we were stating stupid suggestions.”

“What if they aren’t dating? Have you thought about that?”

“He wouldn’t have wasted the chance she gave him. He’s in love with her.”

“Says who? You? Forgive me for not trusting your judgement.”

Grace has a point. Her judgement is unreliable, at best. She has ben wary of romantic involvement for so long that her perception of love, of even the possibility of love, is terribly askew. Repeated heartache gave way to spite, and she’s been rooted in that bitterness long enough to mistrust even the most modest approach to a genuine connection. She can almost see her parents smirking in their graves. Fucked up from all fronts. Luckily, Grace has x-ray vision.

“They didn’t know how to love. But you do. You have. And you can do it again.”

Clara knows that. But it has been so painful. Who’s to say it won’t end in flames yet again?

“That’s part of it. The uncertainty. I think…” Grace takes her hand. “I think it’s meant to make us love more. Harder.” She shrugs. “You’re torn asunder, but you can piece yourself back together. And you won’t have a pesky what if hanging over your head.”

 _A pesky what if_. It was more than that. Their encounters were restricted not by a bothersome conditional, at least not entirely; they were restricted by the fear of a certainty. She didn’t want to acknowledge her hunger, her need, her hope. He had felt like hope. The supposed grievances she listed to Lena were more akin to marks on a map, and she often found herself eager to explore further, to become a cartographer of sorts. And what’s worse, she found herself captivated by these marks.

His door was rarely closed, and sometimes she would catch him sketching on his documents, oblivious to anything beyond the margins of the paper. And it was only recently, alone in the darkness of her bedroom, touching herself desperately, that she realized she had seen that same look of undiluted concentration when he touched her. When he fucked her.

Her bedroom felt lonelier than usual that night. The night after that, too. And all the nights since. She’s tormented by an empty space, and by the anger of pushing Viago into Ramona’s bed. A huge dumbass indeed.

“Come by tonight, Brendan’s making pizza. And Jane keeps asking about you. She says you haven’t visited in a gazillion days.”

Clara feels guilty. Her pity party admits no guests. No one will crash it like a six year-old girl, though. She nods, and Grace leaves. She offers to close the shop; costumers are scarce after dark, and she has picked up the habit of flipping through the last book that’s purchased before closing time.

 _That’s not windblown hair in your eyes, it’s the roots curling through you, and you’ve died, but it’s not forever. Nothing is._

It sure as fuck is. Self-determination was brought by death. And her parents had better stay dead. But she’s not in the ground with them. And she is _not_ them.

  


They were at his place roughly 30 minutes after leaving the office that time she offered him a ride. So if her calculations are correct, he just got home. If he didn’t stay late. If he’s not at Ramona’s place. If…

He’s wearing a checkered jacket and a yellow turtleneck. A classic. His eyes are as brown and big and warm as she remembers. Slightly bigger, actually: he looks shocked. And confused. It’s only been a few weeks since she quit, but it feels longer. The need to get closer, to touch him, makes her tremble a little where she stands.

“Is she here?”

He frowns. “Who?”

“What?”

“What?”

“Ramona. Your…”

There it is. The fluttering down her sternum, but this time tenfold. Hope.

Viago’s stare softens a little. “My colleague. No, she’s not here. She’s never been here.”

She looks away, biting her lip to get it to stop quivering. She nods, as if in agreement. Or acknowledgement. Relief, even. _Hope_. The door frame looks solid and safe, an excellent place to lean onto as she lets the cloak fall to the floor.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Viago. I fucked it up. Please…”

His embrace is swift but tender. He holds her tightly, but it doesn’t feel constricting. It feels shelter-like. Clara realizes she’s crying. She hasn’t cried in years. She _hadn’t_ cried in years —since Grace got married. She wraps her arms around him and buries her face in his chest. Viago lets her cry. He has somehow closed the door and taken her inside, and they sit on his sofa, and she doesn’t remember moving; there is only Viago and his all-encompassing warmth.

His sweater is wet with tears new and stale. Her parents’ death. Their lovelessness thick and bitter until the very end. Her burdensome frustration and profound dissatisfaction. The mounting heartbreaks. How she had let all those shadows darken her vision of the man holding her as if she were delicate and treasured.

When she’s able to breathe again, Viago murmurs something, then rises. He returns with a glass of water and wet wipes. Clara laughs.

“I hope I didn’t get any snot on that sweater.” She is aware she’s avoiding his gaze. It scares her, somewhat. To meet his eye and to see… the opposite of what she feels. But Viago doesn’t intend to play by her rules anymore. He takes her face in his hands and makes her look at him. She needn’t be scared.

“I’m glad you came over. I’m really happy you’re here.”

He kisses her cheek, still wet and sticky. He then kisses the corner of her mouth, and finally, he presses his forehead to hers. “Do you wanna take a nap with me? I’m fucking exhausted. I haven’t found an assistant yet.”

Clara snorts. She cannot recall the last time she slept with someone. Why bother remembering, anyway? “Only if you keep this sweater on.”

“You were always a sucker for my killer fashion sense.”

She lets out a cackle. That statement is quite… factual, actually. “Will you let me take it off later? I make no promises about its integrity, though.”

He chuckles. “I will let you do anything you want to me and to my clothes” he whispers. The fluttering turns into a lustful shudder.

His bedroom is not as eccentric as his clothes. There are a few paintings on the wall, and a few movie posters. There’s a framed illustration of two people, a man and a woman. The man looks a lot like Viago.

“Your parents?”

“Yeah.”

She picks up the frame from the shelf. “They’re dead.”

He takes off his jacket and his shoes, and walks toward her. “I don’t remember telling you that.”

“This illustration was a gift to them, wasn’t it? It's old, and so is the frame. You have it again, and there can only be one reason for that.”

“Maybe they disowned me.”

“You would have thrown it away.”

He doesn’t take the picture; he places his hands on top of hers. The man is wearing a leather jacket on top of a ridiculous shirt with tiny crabs on it. Something tells her this illustration was based on a real picture, and she smiles before putting it back. It’s night-time, and Viago’s bedroom is flooded with the warm, orange light of the street lamp outside. Her jacket also ends up on the floor, and she kicks off her shoes.

“I may have forgotten the logistics of sharing a bed with another person.”

Viago answers by plopping down on the bed and scooting over to his left. He raises his hand and uses his index finger to make a rather dramatic ‘come here’ motion. The mattress dips where she kneels. Viago smiles and pulls her down. They end up on their sides, face to face.

“What happened with Ramona?” Her eyes close. Crying is exhausting.

“She wasn’t you.”

She moves closer and sneaks her hand under his sweater, thumb rubbing his waist. Her face is pressed against his chest again. “She’s not a dumbass like me.”

“I like dumbasses, then.”

She makes a sound, something between a scoff and a sob, and Viago embraces her like he did at his doorstep. “I’m sorry, I can’t seem to stop crying.”

“Yeah, that happens when you don’t do it in a really long time.”

“I’m sorry about your parents.”

“I’m sorry yours were assholes.”

Viago’s softness overwhelms her in a good way. As much as she’d like to be, she’s not razor-edged; she’s dull, tattered. Perhaps that’s why her rejection was as cowardly as it was. And Viago seems to be effortlessly earnest, drawing her toward him and offering a warm place to rest her head. To shed long-repressed tears. His hand moves from her hair to her back; it wanders from her shoulder to her waist. She moves closer still, wanting to soak up all the tangerine-scented warmth he gives off. Their legs are tangled and she feels a kiss on her hair before she finally drifts off to sleep.

  


She hears him call out her name. She’d wanted to wash her face, sticky and puffy from before. There was even a little bit of drool on his sweater when she woke up. She can think of one more way to ruin it. He stops rubbing his eyes when he sees her exit the bathroom.

“Come here.” His voice is slightly husky from slumber.

“No.”

“No?”

She shakes her head. His closet is narrow and smooth, and she leans against it. “I want to watch you touch yourself.”

He sits up, back against the headboard. “Want me to undress?”

“Not yet.”

He smiles and it’s so full of mischief she smiles as well. “I’d like an incentive, if it’s not too much trouble.”

Her hands are already sneaking under her dress, sliding her underwear down her legs. “For your collection.”

He catches them mid-air and stuffs the crotch in his mouth.

“Good boy” she breathes.

A shiver runs down her back as she swipes her fingers across her clit. Viago hums, touching his cock over his trousers. “Don’t be such a tease, Viago.”

He closes his eyes as he undoes his pants and takes his cock in hand. He strokes himself slowly, and Clara tries to match his pace with her own fingers. He opens his eyes and his gaze is immediately drawn to the motion of her hand under her dress. With his free hand, he makes a gesture that she interprets as ‘take off your dress’. So she does. She quickly removes her bra, and the thrill of being stark naked while he’s fully clothed gives her goosebumps.

There’s a perverse pleasure in keeping her distance, especially after the evening’s events. She can’t seem to stop baring herself to him. _Keep your eyes on me. I’m finally here: see me_. She kneels at his feet. His cock is so hard, its head dark and smooth.

“Do you like what you see?” His voice is a strained whisper that makes her own breath hitch.

“Too fucking much.”

She spreads her legs wider and slides two fingers inside. His moan makes her inch closer, close enough to spit on his cock.

“Fuck, Clara. I want— I wanna—” He’s pumping his hand faster, harder.

“Wanna come in my mouth?”

The motion of his hand is almost hypnotic, and Clara’s breathing grows quick and shallow. She scoots closer and licks the head. Viago grunts.

“I wanna cum everywhere. In you. On you. On your pretty face. In your fucking perfect cunt.”

She licks her glistening fingers and dips her head just in time to pull his cock into her mouth as he comes, hot and thick on her tongue. She lets it drip out of her mouth and onto his sweater, where she licks it off again. He groans, long and low.

“Swallow it” he murmurs.

She gulps dramatically then sticks her tongue out, making him chuckle.

“Come here.”

“No.”

“Stop saying that!”

“No.”

“Brat.”

She takes the waistband of his trousers and pulls them down and off. “Cute socks”, she mocks. They have avocados with smiley faces on them. She takes those off too. “I knew it!”

“What?”

Her fingertips brush the tattoo, and she catches his smile. “When did you get it?”

“When I was terribly young.”

“Do you regret it?”

“Not in the least.”

“Do you have more?”

“Why don’t you take this sticky sweater off and find out?”

He has two more, one on each arm. She grazes those, too, and his chest, and his waist. Her thumb brushes his hipbone, and her index strokes his navel. Viago’s body is long and lean, appealing in its sturdiness and enticing in its softness.

“Come here. Third time’s the charm, no?”

She smiles and lies on her side. His kiss is long and sultry, an inquiry of sorts. _Will you stay tonight?_ A swirl of the tongue. _Will you be this warm and open come daylight?_ A tug of the lip. _What will we be to each other?_ A strand of hair tucked behind her ear.

She answers in kind, seeking the citric taste of his spit, reveling in it, blending it with the sharp tang of his pleasure. _Yes. Yes. Something warm and safe, I hope_. When they part, he brushes his nose against hers and presses his forehead to her own. He’s always beckoning her to inch closer, and all of her misgivings about it are slowly fading. He licks his thumb and strokes her nipple.

“Sit on my face.”

Not even as his diligent assistant had she received such a direct command. What can she do other than obey? She rests her hands upon the headboard as soon as his tongue makes contact.

Viago fucks the way he draws: undistracted, centered, devoted. His mouth is hot and slick, just like her cunt. Her attention is focused and fragmented at once: she sees him under her, between her spread legs, tongue keen and unwavering; but she also scatters across the room, eyes now open, now closed, chasing that flash that’s going to set her aflame.

Tired of the smooth surface of the wood beneath her hands, she arches backward and grabs his thighs.

“Oh, fuck.” She grinds her cunt against his face as he pries her open, sucking the hood of her clit into his mouth, then pressing the tip of his tongue to her clit. He uses his left hand to grab handfuls of her ass and his right hand to exert the lightest pressure on her lower abdomen. Her fingernails dig into his legs and her hips start moving faster, breaking whatever rhythm Viago had set, blindly sprinting toward a climax that rests on the flat curve of his tongue.

“Fuck, fuck, Viago, Vi-“

Her orgasm hits her and surrounds her and breaks her into a myriad pieces. She shudders above him, spine bent forward, fingers twined in his hair. She only registers the change in position after gathering her dispersed self and seeing Viago biting her thigh. And _feeling_ Viago biting her thigh—

“Ow!”

“In order to make you come like this a million more times in the future, I need to be able to, you know, breathe.”

She giggles and plops down on the bed.

“I also like biting a little bit. Just-“ He nibbles on her left breast. “-a little.”

“To mark me?”

“Among other things.”

His scruffy beard is wet, really wet. She fishes around the floor and takes his sweater. Viago laughs as he realizes what she intends to do. “Got plenty of those, you know.”

“Oh, I know.” She wipes his face then kisses him. The flutter is always strongest in their most tender exchanges. It’s like the tremor of a small bird’s wings echoing around her ribcage. It weakens her— no, it disarms her.

“How did your parents die?”

“Car accident.”

“Why did they make you go to medical school?”

“They were also doctors.”

“Have you mourned them? Did you have it in you to mourn them?”

Did she? They didn’t deserve it, nor did they need it, but she did love them. A rugged, unsentimental love, but love nonetheless. They never abused her, verbally or otherwise. They were simply… austere.

“I don’t know if it was grief. It was a dull ache, like a toothache. And anger. They didn’t love me, or they didn’t show their love, which is the same. But they were there. In their own detached way, but they were there.”

Viago nods. Clara recognizes that nod. She saw it countless times at the office. _It sounds like grief_ , he wants to say. But he keeps it to himself. She appreciates that. As inquisitive as he’s being, he knows it’s not his place to label how she feels about her parents.

“And the blonde beauty at the bar?”

“An ex.” She pauses, then decides to come clean. “I asked her to go. I knew it’d be difficult seeing you with Ramona, knowing you had finally gotten what you wanted.”

“Turns out neither of us had realized what we really wanted back then.”

“What did she want?”

“To see if she _could_ want me. She couldn’t.”

“And what did you want?”

“To get down on my knees and eat your pussy right on that shitty stage.”

Her chest vibrates with laughter, and Viago rests his head on it. His hand traces the planes of her tummy, the swell of her hips, the softness of her thighs. He takes her hand and presses his mouth to her palm. He then kisses her middle and index fingers and sucks them into his mouth. Viago excels at gestures of this kind: small yet insanely erotic.

“I’ve got an idea. Get off the bed.”

“Ooh, fun, love it already.”

She smirks and pushes him out of the bed, then lies across it, head hanging off the edge. The bed is high enough, she thinks, so it might work.

“Show me again.”

“You first.”

She spreads her legs and sneaks her hand between them, her fingers moving clockwise.

“Put them in” he mutters. He lets out a small moan when she complies. “Have I told you your cunt is absolutely heavenly?”

“Never.”

“Your cunt is fucking heavenly, Clara.”

She sighs and drags her middle finger back to her clit. “Get that hard cock in my mouth. Now.”

“This one?” A languid stroke.

“Viago.”

“Yes?” A twirl of his thumb around the head.

“Please.”

“That’s my girl.”

He bends his knees slightly and pushes himself inside her mouth. “Take it all, babe. Take- fuck, all of it, fuck. Such a good girl.”

The angle opens her throat completely, and he rams his cock all the way inside.

“Don’t stop touching yourself.”

It’s a sensory overload: all of her is engaged, oriented to not one but two orgasms. She’s always been good at multitasking. Her cheeks are messy with her own spit, and she laps at his cock on the downstroke, savoring his shameless moans. His hips move in intervals centered around her need to gasp for air, and she takes those moments to wrap her hand around his cock and suck his balls into her mouth. He reacts as she expected: with wild grunts and plenty of profanity-laced encouragement.

“Fuck, do that again. You’re so good, baby, you look so fucking good with my cock in your mouth. You like it when I’m balls deep in your pretty mouth, don’t you? I’m gonna cum fucking everywhere, I’m gonna cover you with my fucking cum.”

She would chuckle were her mouth not otherwise occupied.

“I’m not gonna come until I see you come, Clara.”

It’s an interesting, albeit overwhelming fracture; she can almost see herself splintered into two different selves, the need for release at the core of each one. Viago is close; she can feel it in his strained muscles, in his steely grip. She’s close, too: she clenches her thighs and rubs them together and speeds up the motion of her fingers around her clit. One last brush of her middle finger and she comes undone. She mindlessly thrashes about, pushing Viago slightly away.

He takes his cock in his hand and pumps one, two, three, four times, then comes. She catches some of it on her tongue; the rest ends up on her cheeks and on her neck. He rubs it across her breasts with his fingertips, and she laughs.

“Ever the artist, I see.”

She spots a dash of yellow amidst her haze. Viago has his sweater in hand and is gently cleaning her up with it.

“I’m gonna frame it.”

“Gross.”

He swipes it between her thighs. “Tears, drool, cum. Trifecta, don’t you think?”

“Are you going to use it to jerk off?”

“I already have several pairs of your underwear for that.”

“Have you done it? For real?”

“Yep.”

She lets out a laugh.

“Have you?”

Practically every night since she quit, though not always out of lust. He became a wraith, almost; she wouldn’t always picture him as the man she fucked, but as a pieced-together recollection of varying moments and frames. The memory of Viago kneeling between her legs and eating her cunt had been awfully rewarding, yes, but her mind often painted a much less conspicuous picture. Viago fixing his tie. Viago adjusting his watch. Viago doodling on his coffee cup. These stills would mix with the more salacious ones— Viago tearing her underwear; Viago sucking her clit into his mouth; Viago pounding into her, moaning and desperate for release. So Clara touched herself sometimes languidly, sometimes fiercely, but always with him on mind.

“Oh yeah.”

He gives her a timid smile, his cheeks faintly red. They’re lying on their stomachs, and she likes the sheen of sweat on his back.

“Would you let me peg you?”

He cackles. “We haven’t even gone on a date!”

“Is that the requirement?”

“Dine me and wine me first, Jesus.”

“So _it is_ the requirement.”

“I’ll let you know after dinner.”

“Well, you did say you would let me do anything to you, didn’t ya?” She straddles his hips and licks a long line up his back.

“Holy shit, you're fucking quick!”

“Will you go out with me, Viago?” She slides slightly lower and bites his ass.

“Yes! Also, do that again.”

She smirks against his skin and nibbles on it again. Viago makes a sound —an approximation of a sigh, but softer. Like a small puff of air tinged with… curiosity. A faint vibration of his vocal cords and her ears would have caught a moan.

“Hmm.” She bites him again, slightly harder. He groans and ruts against the bed. She traces the curve of his ass with her fingers and bites one more time.

“Fuck, I learned something new today.”

“You’re welcome.”

He rolls over and strokes himself. “Thank you.”

His gaze moves across her body, and for the first time, she feels bashful.

“I’m really glad you’re here.” A pause full of hesitation. “I thought about going to your flat, since you changed your number.”

His thumb grazes her hip, then he drags his fingertips up the line of her waist. He presses his hand to her heart, and the gesture alone makes it beat slightly faster.

“But I was hurt. And I let my pride get in the way.”

He sits up and kisses her where his hand was, right on her now-pounding heart.

“You… transfix me.”

She wants to breathe in that whisper; she wants to harbor it in her lungs and let it fuel her affection, her—

She combs through his curls and offers him the gesture he has offered her many times before: she presses her forehead to his. Their breaths blow them forward, and they mix and mingle as their lips brush.

“I'm here. I'm finally where I want to be.”

His kiss is slow and honeyed. Viago has never kissed her with haste. With urgency, yes. With vexation, with desperation, with need. Never with haste. And it’s with the same unhurried movement that he lifts her hips and lowers her onto his cock.

Is it a moan that escapes her lips? Or is it a sigh? His name, even. Yes, his name, soft and prayer-like.

“Say it again.”

“Viago.”

She rests her hands on his neck and her hips begin a steady undulation. He groans.

“Again.”

She says it once. And then once more. And soon it’s all her mind can conjure, there is nothing else. There is only Viago and the heat of his skin. He opens her mouth with his fingers, rubs the tips on her tongue. When he presses one to her clit, she whimpers.

“Come on my cock, Clara. Come all over my fucking cock.”

She finds herself nodding. Obeying. The scope of her world has narrowed to a single bedroom, to a hazel-eyed man with his cock and his hand between her legs, coaxing her to unravel. Her hips move faster, wet skin gliding against wet skin, and they move in tandem, inching closer and closer and—

“Fuck, Viago, fuck.” her body curls and writhes and she can do nothing but be torn apart from the inside, clawing at his shoulders, inhaling the scent of his sweat.

“Can I come inside you?”

A nod. Viago grabs her and thrusts upward a few times before he grunts in pleasure. He grinds her hips on his, basking in her little moans, offering her half-words and low groans of his own.

Their panting reminds her of that first time in his office. There had been an ill-defined sense of… attachment that night, an impression of intimacy. It has shifted; it has mutated. It is no longer a vagueness, nor is it a pretense. It has evolved: it’s a certainty. She wants to get close. She wants to see and be seen.

Lena is right; she cannot be given a warranty against heartbreak. Viago might join her on the list of ‘could have been but painfully wasn’t’. But he might not. She needs to make sure. She needs to see for herself. Cowardice can be overcome; regret just mounts and suffocates.

She kisses him on the cheek, on the corner of his mouth, and finally on his lips, and she feels his smile with her own mouth.

“I have to pee.”

“Okay. There’s something we need to discuss, though.”

Her pulse quickens. “What is it?”

“You know, I never saw you eat anything that didn’t have loads of sugar in it. Do you eat anything other than sweets? Let’s order something. Ooh, let’s take a shower. What kind of food do you like? Are you hungry?”

She smiles, her head nodding along to all of his questions.

“Starving.”

  


Author's note: _That’s not windblown hair in your eyes, it’s the roots curling through you, and you’ve died, but it’s not forever. Nothing is._ is a verse from a poem by Brenda Shaughnessy, _Evening Prayer for the Humans_.

  


**Author's Note:**

> Please yell at me about how much of a mess this is :)


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